Love In A Time Of The Zombie Apocalypse
by Rizzle
Summary: After Voldemort, there was this. The clock is ticking to create a cure to the unimaginable horror that currently grips the world. Hermione finds herself unwillingly allied with the most hated man in Wizarding Britain.
1. Release

**Author's Notes:**

OK, so I got no business writing fic right now, given my study and work commitments, let alone fic that isn't an update to one of my WIPS. I'm very sorry about that. I honestly did not anticipate the plot bunnies overdosing on Viagra as they've done this past month, and certainly not in this fashion.

It is a commonly known fact among the people who know me that I love B-horrors and all their attendant, gore, zombies, and werewolves (how kind of Joss Whedon to obviously make _Cabin In The Words_ JUST FOR ME! :D). I thought I'd pretty much used every single trope in Dramione in the decade that I've been writing for this wonderful 'ship, but somehow I'd never thought to combine my love of horror with D/Hr. It's been a while since I've actually yearned to write D/Hr, so I'm not even sure if this will work or if it's any good.

Drop me a line to let me know what you think, so I'll know to continue or not. Thanks for reading!

* * *

"Do you really think he's still alive?"

"Well, my sensor spell is very clearly picking up someone in the lower ground."

"Someone?"

"Yes. Someone _alive_. And as expected, it looks like we can't Apparate in. Seamus' wards are holding, Harry."

"Finnegan ended up being a deft hand at the ol' swish and flick after all… I guess it's the front door, then. How come no one's realised he's been here all this while?"

"Everyone's dead. There was simply no one left to remember."

"Do you reckon he has absolutely no idea what's been happening?"

"I don't know. It's possible. Solitary confinement is rather solitary."

"You're sure you want to do this? Scrimgeour will have our heads. Well, more mine than yours. He actually needs _your_ head."

"He'll understand. And please, Harry, no more chainsaw hex at close quarters? The mess took days to wash out of my hair last time."

"I rather like that hex…"

"I know you do, Harry."

"I invented it, you know."

"I know, Harry."

"On the count of three?"

"Let's."

"One, two, three. _REDUCTO_!"

* * *

The front doors to Azkaban prison exploded open. Dust, mortar and bits of pulverised wood bloomed up in the air to form a dense, noxious cloud. It still wasn't thick enough to prevent the smell of concentrated death and decay from hitting Harry and Hermione like a battering ram. The scent was strong enough to taste. Coughing and covering their mouths and noses with their forearms, wands held aloft, they entered the dark foyer.

Harry cast _Lumos_.

There were no teeming hordes. No ravenous undead to fend off. Well, that wasn't exactly accurate—there_ were_ ravenous undead, they were just in such an emaciated and weakened state that most had been reduced to half-eaten, moaning, twitching torsos on the ground. In the absence of fresh meat, they had cannibalised each other.

The ones left uneaten were now completely unanimated, vestigial brain functions long gone. Azkaban had not been spared from the outbreak, but during the worst of it, Warden Seamus Finnegan had made the call to seal the front doors and contained what was inside, _on the inside_. That included himself and five remaining prison guards who were still human and very much alive the last time they had communicated with the Ministry. That had been over four months ago.

Now there was no one. There was just the dark, death and the familiar gut-churning smell. The smell permeated everything.

She cast the Sensor Spell again, which manifested as condensed, red-gridded blueprints. There, in Sub Basement C, Azkaban's state of the (magical) art, completely automated, maximum security wing, was Prisoner E5673. He showed up as a luminous blue, pulsating dot.

They took the stairs. Harry first, with Hermione following behind. There was a small, unexpected welcoming party in the stairwell—two former prison-guards who still looked rather…fresh.

Hermione didn't have time to think about the horror the pair had probably endured, attempting to survive the hell of being trapped in a building with two hundred newborn zombies, at least a dozen of which had been former colleagues. They'd done well to survive, for a time.

Harry eventually took the head off the male guard, who was naked with its stomach gaping open, and who still kept coming at them. He kicked it and the flailing, headless torso toppled over the railing, landing with a wet noise in the landing of Sub-Basement A. The female guard lurched forward toward Hermione. It still wore its uniform, a badge and a blue hair barrette, though seemed to be missing most of its face and an arm. Its slack mouth opened hideously wide due to a dislocated, misaligned jaw, and it released a long, guttural cry. Its hand reached for Hermione's face, and Hermione took a hasty step backwards.

"_Incendio_," she said, and the thing dropped to its knees loudly enough to crack bone, screeching and tearing at its clothing as it burned.

"You OK?" Harry called. He was halfway down the stairs.

No, of course not. She would never be ok. Not ever again.

"Yes!" Hermione called back, stepping around the twitching, burning zombie.

* * *

Three floors below, they found Draco Malfoy sitting in a glass cube rimmed with steel—one of Seamus' designs. He was at a small desk and he was reading.

_Reading_.

Hermione could have hated him for that alone.

For a goodly minute, he stared at them while they stared at him. It was a study in ironic, almost comical contrasts. The convicted murderer and terrorist looked rather civilised, almost genteel. He was well-shorn and tidy in plain black robes. Then there was the rather bedraggled, bearded and slightly manic-eyed Harry. Beside him was Hermione, liberally covered in dust, soot and why yes, that _had_ to be viscera in her hair, didn't it?

At the far end of Malfoy's cell were bookshelves lined with…_oh my_, Muggle novels, seemingly. Classics, all of them. They filled the shelving, from floor to ceiling. Hermione could make out some of the titles. There were the stalwarts—Austen, Bronte, Dickens, Hemingway, and more contemporary fare.

Inexplicably, she felt the hot sting of tears behind her eyes. At the start of the year, she could have plucked _Great Expectations_ off her own bookshelf at home, curled up in front of the fireplace in her parents' den and read 'til the sun came up.

That was then. It felt like a lifetime ago. Now, most of the world had turned upside down. What was still right side up was _burning_. The idea of stories and happy endings and Jane Austen was so alien and strange.

And here he was. Draco Malfoy. Reading.

Hermione's attention was abruptly returned to the situation at hand when Malfoy shut his book with a loud snap. He stood, looking markedly taller, paler and gaunter than she remembered. She observed the small frown that appeared at his brow. A normal person would have demanded to know, probably in a shout, what the hell was going on above ground that made it impossible for anyone to check on him in more than four months. But Malfoy was anything but normal. You didn't keep 'normal' in twenty-five cubic square meters of warded glass and steel.

His eyes catalogued everything with a neat, precise _hunger_, scanning all the details presented to him. His gaze eventually stopped at her. A cold smile transformed his face from discreetly curious to calculating.

"Visitors. My, it has been a while." The words were light, but there was tension in his, soft, sibilant voice. "And to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You might want to stand back, Malfoy," Harry said raising his wand, but Hermione put a stalling hand on his arm.

"Remember what Seamus said when they built the prototype? We can hear him, but he can't hear anything from inside the cube. Use the communication box."

"The what?"

Both Malfoy and Hermione pointed to it at the same time—a small metal box recessed into a corner of the cube. There was a slot at the bottom big enough for books and for the rolled up, back-copies of the Daily Prophet and The Guardian that Hermione presently fed through.

"What's that for?" Harry asked.

"For proof. Would _you_ believe us?"

Harry grunted. "Pro'lly not. Good thinking."

Not in any great hurry, Malfoy retrieved the newspapers and scanned them. His frown deepened and at one point, he stopped blinking altogether. When he looked up, however, his face was utterly impassive. Hermione hadn't been sure what to expect. Shock, certainly. Perhaps even an attempt at dark humour. But this ambivalence angered her.

Of course he cared. He _had_ to care. Hermione tried to scry for evidence of this and couldn't seem to find any.

She pressed the button on the communication box and spoke. "Given that the virus originated here, we've been the worst hit, so the UK and Scotland are currently cut off from Europe and the rest of the world. Africa, South America, Central, West and North Asia are war zones. North and South America are about to follow suit. So far, only parts of South East Asia, Australia, New Zealand and pockets of Oceania are reporting some success in isolating their Infected."

Malfoy processed all this. "Well that would explain why Warden Finnegan, hasn't come to see me in such a long while. Tell me, has he shuffled off this mortal coil? Pun intended, provided these creatures are of the shuffling variety?"

Seamus Finnegan. Warden of Azkaban. Married to Lavender Brown, deceased. Two children, Timothy, aged five, deceased. And oh—what was her name? The little one? Hermione dredged up a memory of a Seamus striding into the Ministry one morning carrying a little girl with blonde hair and cornflower-blue eyes.

_Emily_. Also deceased.

It was important Hermione remembered _her_ people. The two guards they dispatched minutes ago had been somebody's 'people'. Were they remembered? When it was all over, Hermione made a mental note to find out. It went without saying that her mental notebook was now in its seventh volume.

She ignored Malfoy's question about Seamus. His other question was much more pertinent.

"They're slow and not terribly strong, but then their strength has always been in their numbers. And unfortunately, the Infected in the UK outnumber us."

"And how many did you incinerate on your way down here?"

"Not nearly so many that we can afford to waste time talking about this. You need to come with us."

"Why?"

Harry made an impatient noise and took over at the box. "The Americans are planning a nuclear strike. Frankly, we're lucky it hasn't already happened. What's left of the British Muggle government has managed to convince the American President to give the magical community time to bring the situation under control."

Malfoy laughed. "Are you trying to tell me that this—" he gestured towards Harry and Hermione—"_this_ is some kind of rescue? Frankly, Potter, I'm touched."

"During the war, you were briefly allied with a wizard who worked in virology at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in the US, weren't you?"

Malfoy was surprised at the turn in conversation, but didn't miss a beat. "Yes. Dr Hendry Tan. Mad as a March hare, but undeniably brilliant."

"You killed him. If he was alive, we wouldn't need you." Hermione said, tightly. She hadn't been speaking into the box, but Malfoy didn't need to hear her to know what she'd said. He seemed capable of basic lip-reading.

"He killed himself, Granger. I just didn't stop him." His grey stare bored into her. "And pray tell why do you have need of me?"

Hermione sucked in a breath and counted to five before she shoved Harry aside and pressed the button once more. She'd rehearsed all this with Harry already, but the _reality_ of actually having to converse with Draco Malfoy, war criminal, terrorist and murderer, was something you could never prepare for. No doubt the fact she'd known him since he was squeaky-voiced and shorter than her, added to her anxieties. It seemed a travesty that such an evil, loathsome person was needed to bring about such good.

"Your goal was to create an additional line of funding for Voldemort's cause by selling potion patents to pharmaceutical companies, yes?"

Malfoy had moved to sit on the edge his desk, arms folded. The long parting in his robes widened, revealing a pair of slim, black trousers. Every other prisoner in Azkaban wore bright orange. Trust Malfoy to have struck some kind of deal to avoid what he probably perceived to be an unfashionable fate. Or maybe it was just that maximum security inmates adhered to a different set of rules? After all, they didn't socialise with the rest of the inmate community. In any case, there was no sign of the pompous little bully and fledgling sociopath who never went anywhere without Crabbe and Goyle. The bully had grown into a man with blood on his hands. And not the kind that currently stained Hermione's jeans and canvas jacket.

"You Muggles, with your science and technology and your much vaunted human ingenuity. You haven't even managed to eradicate the common cold. I spotted a lucrative, untapped market," he said.

There was a muffled crash from the direction of the stairwell. Harry and Hermione glanced at the exit. Nothing came through. Malfoy, not being able to hear anything external to his cell, followed their line of sight. He also observed Harry checking his wristwatch and giving Hermione a pointed look.

"So you tried selling magical cures to Muggles," Hermione concluded, speaking faster now.

"Synthesised magical cures, Granger. That was Tan's job—to convert the magical to the mundane."

"You and Tan _synthesized_ one of your potions into a serum. An antivirus. Do you remember what it was called?"

They had to confirm what American wizarding intelligence was alleging. Otherwise, Malfoy was of no use to them free. She wondered if he knew his life was at stake. If he couldn't help their cause, they would leave him there.

For a moment, it looked like he wasn't going to humour her by continuing the conversation, but then he replied. "Tan named it after me. _Double-stranded RNA Activated Caspase Oligomerizer_."

Hermione couldn't help it. Her heart leaped a little. Here, at last, was hope. After so many weeks of failure in the laboratory.

"D.R.A.C.O," Hermione said, swallowing the lump in her throat. Harry hated calling it that, but the longer version continually defeated him. "We need you to tell us how to make D.R.A.C.O so I can combine it with a standard Regeneration Potion."

"Why?"

She was blunt. "To save the world."

One floor up, there was the sound of furniture scraping along the floor.

"_Hermione_…" Harry said.

Malfoy left his perch at his desk and stood before her, separated by four-inch thick, enchanted glass. He put his hand against the glass, to the left of her face. She tilted her head upwards to meet his stare. It took effort, but she managed to resist the urge to step backwards. He was contained, but still crowded her.

"And what do I get in return, Mudblood?"

Harry marched over to the communication box. "You get to live, you bastard! We could just as easily leave you here to rot!"

Malfoy chuckled. "Potter, the spells that automate my air supply, artificial sunlight, the delivery of my food and the elimination of my waste will likely outlast us both. I'm safer in here than you are out there."

"Caged like an animal, you mean?"

"We're all animals," Malfoy replied. "Some of us simply belong to a higher stratum than others." At this, he stared at Hermione. "Where is Weasley? Don't tell me he's succumbed? Did you have the heart to put him out of his misery or has his mother got him tied to a peg in the backyard of that lean-to he calls a home?"

Harry growled and slammed the side of his fist against the glass, which shimmered. Malfoy didn't as much as flinch, neither did he take his eyes off Hermione. The answer to his query was on her face.

"I see," Malfoy said, speculatively.

Damn him. _Damn, damn, damn_. Hermione whirled around to the face the wall, away from Malfoy and away from the damnable concern and regret in Harry's eyes. She looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly in an ineffectual attempt to stifle her tears.

She was startled when Harry grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the exit. "We're leaving without him."

"Harry, no." She dug her heels in. "We need him."

"No one needs _that_! No one can possibly be that desperate!"

"_We're_ that desperate!" she hissed. She extricated her hand from his grasp and ran back to the communication box.

Malfoy had watched the entire exchange, the smirk gone, grey eyes now very intent. It was time to end the game and no mistake, he'd been playing one the moment they'd showed up. He approached her at the box, eye to eye, behind the glass. He stood so close she could see the flecks of blue in his irises.

"What do you want?" she asked, plainly.

"A full pardon."

Hermione nodded, unsurprised. "You'll have it."

"I am to take your word for it?"

"_Yes_."

She thought it was a certainty that her promise would not be enough; that he would argue and bargain some more. But there must have been something in the quality of her reply, because he was no longer impassive. For the briefest moment, she saw unadulterated wanting. The raw emotion was as affecting as it was brief.

"_Swear it_."

"I swear on my life that if you help us, the Ministry will rescind your life sentence."

"We need to go!" Harry yelled.

"Do we have a bargain?" Hermione demanded, simultaneously.

Malfoy nodded. "We do."

"Then stand back."

He did so, and she noticed that he quickly walked to the book shelves, plucked a volume and tucked it away inside his robes.

The spell shattered the glass wall into an ocean of crystalline granules that crunched under Malfoy's feet as he exited his prison. He didn't bound out of his cell with a triumphant expression. There was a caution and tentativeness to his movements which almost garnered him some sympathy from Hermione.

As soon as he was out, Harry grabbed hold of Malfoy's elbow and placed the tip of his wand to his throat. "I'm itching for an excuse, Malfoy. So don't try anything."

Malfoy smiled and held up his hands. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Tether him," Harry said to Hermione.

She pulled a long, golden skein from the back pocket of her jeans and approached Malfoy. Impossibly, he seemed even taller outside of his cage.

"Pull up your sleeve and hold out your left arm," she ordered. "You're still left-handed, I assume?"

"Yes," he replied, and she began to tie one end of the skein around his left wrist.

The skin at the inside of his wrist was so pale it was nearly translucent, light blue veins clearly visible. Hermione's grubby, soot-blackened fingers were a stark contrast. Further up his arm, the tail end of the Dark Mark was revealed. It was a muted grey, the colour of a faded tattoo. As Hermione made the knot, she brushed his skin with her knuckles once or twice and saw that it left a smudge.

He said nothing during this, but she could feel his gaze over the top of her head. She then tied the other end of the skein to Harry's right wrist. When it was done, Malfoy pulled his sleeve back down.

"What is that?" he asked, examining his wrist. The skein had vanished. He thumbed the soot marks away.

"Your leash," Harry said, with some relish. He grabbed the back of Malfoy's robes and shoved him towards the exit and the stairs. "Up we go. Death Eaters first."

"Oh, this just gets better and better," Malfoy muttered under his breath. "Fortune, on his damned quarry smiling."

Hermione followed behind, thinking that a Draco Malfoy who quoted from Macbeth was just slightly discombobulating.

* * *

**Additional Author's Notes**

Now that that's out of the way, I just had to tell you that D.R.A.C.O is a real, honest-to-god, I kid you not, broad spectrum antivirus, and it's causing quite a tizzy. I am no medical scientist, but I hear it's very, very promising. What are the odds that I find an actual drug named after Draco? WHAT ARE THE ODDS, I ASK YOU?!


	2. Project Christmas

**Author's Notes:**

Wow, thank you to everyone for the encouragement to continue writing this! I'm still having a lot of fun (particularly with Padma, in this chapter). I love team dynamics in stories and it was important to get that right in these two scenes, seeing as the research team is central to the success (or failure) of the mission. No Draco and Hermione interaction in this chapter, but there'll be plenty of that to come. Do drop me a line to let me know what you think. Thank you for reading!

**References: **

Draco's line in the first scene about not being crazy is inspired by Sheldon Cooper's annoyance in _The Big Bang Theory, _every time someone questions his sanity.

Scrimgeour's mention of Draco being lethal with a plastic dinner tray in the second scene is inspired by comedian Eddie Izzard's (2000) stand up show, _'Circle'_, which features a segment widely referred to as 'Death Star Canteen'.

* * *

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place was their base of operations, with a few slight tweaks. Two basement levels, among other things. It served as both a makeshift Ministry headquarters and laboratory, boasting equipment painstakingly pilfered from medical and scientific facilities all over England.

The research team comprised eighteen people—Muggle scientists and magical experts––who worked in shifts around the clock, surviving on a combination of coffee, camaraderie and junk food. There were mixed-bloods, Muggleborns, a werewolf, two regular Muggles and three Purebloods in the bargain. They worked side by side, slept in bunk beds, ate the same awful food and told the same bad jokes. As it turned out, there _was_ such a thing as a Japanese 'knock-knock' joke (they were just called 'kon-kon' jokes, instead).

It was enough to warm the cockles of a cynical heart. Or alternatively, make Voldemort turn over in his grave.

"The brains trust," Malfoy called it, as Harry brought him through the lab. Hermione was not with them, having gone directly upstairs to brief Scrimgeour on their recent acquisition.

Padma Patil looked up from the slide she had been studying under a microscope, as Harry introduced Malfoy to _Project Christmas_. Malfoy didn't need to ask about the origins of the mission's name. Yule—and the Americans' nuclear strike deadline—was exactly five months away in December.

And as if the team members needed the reminder, some had taken it upon themselves to erect a plastic Christmas tree, complete with balding tinsel rope, mismatched baubles and blinking lights. There was plastic holly taped to the tops of filing cabinets and large, glitzy foam reindeer stickers stuck to the walls. In the far corner was a life-sized, blow-up Santa Claus. Some enterprising soul had slipped Father Christmas into red, thong underwear and had drawn glasses and a lightning bolt scar across his forehead.

Padma gave Malfoy a cool once-over. "Is he safe?"

Harry held up his wrist. "We used your tether."

"Harry, I haven't even had a chance to test that out properly yet!"

"I have. Behold," Harry said, grinning, though it was hard to tell given his mountain-man beard. To demonstrate, he made a fist, held out his arm and then gave Malfoy a focussed, narrow-eyed look.

Malfoy was abruptly reeled in at such force that he slammed into the side of Padma's work bench. She managed to snatch up a rack of test tubes before it toppled over.

He righted himself while simultaneously shooting Harry a withering look. For Padma, however, he was all smiles. "Still wasting your Blood talents on this lot, I see?"

Padma's resulting glare ought to have caused instant frostbite. She blinked once, slowly, and then completely dismissed Malfoy altogether. "Harry, you may like to know that Scrimgeour's already had his proverbial kittens and is upstairs attempting to proverbially wean them."

Harry winced. "That bad, is it? Hermione's speaking to him now."

"And that's the last time you give me the job of telling the Minister that our irreplaceable lead researcher and Harry Potter have gone off to rescue the most dangerous criminal in the country from a zombie infested mank hole." Now that her obligatory bluster was out of the way, Padma gave Harry a conspiratorial look. "So, was it worth it or what?"

"Padma," Harry began, his eyes bright, "he says he can re-create D.R.A.C.O."

This brought the hubbub of activity in the lab to an abrupt halt. Everyone present had been surreptitiously listening to the conversation.

Padma stood up from her metal stool and to both Malfoy's and Harry's surprise, grabbed the front of Malfoy's robes. She was so happy, she was practically luminous. "Merlin! So it's true, then? Your formula exists?"

Malfoy stared down at her rubber-gloved hands. Padma's immediately released him.

"We have everything you need here to make it," she said, with more sobriety. "Of course ReGen's being used right now to control the progress of the Infection, but that's just the start of what's to come."

There was silence. Malfoy filled it. "Given that I've been stuck in a glass box for six years, ReGen is…?"

"Oh, yes," Padma said. "Sorry, I forget about the whole incarcerated insane criminal genius thing."

"I'm _not _insane," Malfoy replied, with quiet annoyance. This was apparently a sore point for him. "There were _tests_."

"We have better tests these days. Perhaps when all this is over, we can have another go at it?" Padma smile was saccharine-sweet.

Malfoy sighed. "What is ReGen?"

"It's a treatment for the newly infected. It's not a cure, but it buys the Infected some time before they turn. The plan is to combine it with D.R.A.C.O, to create a state of cellular stasis during which D.R.A.C.O may be able to gain a foothold."

"And this ReGen has been trialled?"

"Of course." There was professional pride in Padma's voice. "All this may look haphazard, but it isn't. We have the means to formulate a cure. _The_ cure."

"You have the means to test your cure on human subjects, as well?"

At this, Padma's mouth opened to respond, but she stopped herself when she caught Harry's subtle look.

Harry activated the tether and led Malfoy out of the lab. "Come on, I'll show you to your room. You'll love it. It's just like home."

* * *

The silence was grating.

Also, she was itchy and in dire need of a shower. Hermione remained standing in the middle of the meeting room on the second floor of Twelve, Grimmauld Place, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Scrimgeour was looking over the file on D.R.A.C.O that the Americans had provided.

The Americans were very thorough. It was a thick file.

"Sir, if I could just—"

Without taking his eyes off the page he was reading, Scrimgeour held up an index finger, cutting her off.

Hermione resumed waiting. There were other people in the room—the Japanese and Australian members of Project Christmas, and the two American Wizarding intelligence operatives, who were unerringly _everywhere_. The rest of the research team were still in the lab with Padma, and thank Merlin for it. That meant less people on hand to witness Scrimgeour's formidable displeasure.

As it happened, all the scientists in the group shared more in common than they shared differences. This was despite language barriers, differences in age, rank and status, and in the case of their Swedish microbiologist, the fact that he turned into a seven-foot tall pillar of muscle, fur, teeth and talons once a month. They all still got _inhumanly_ excited by results garnered from petri dishes. They were focussed to the point of exhaustion and seemed to run mostly on caffeine and crisps.

The two Wizarding agents were a different matter. At the behest of the US government, they lurked in corners, made notes and held regular, private Floo communication with their superiors in Washington. There were an impressive amount of _levels_ to the US Wizarding Senate. It was like bureaucratic layer cake.

Harry called them the Cowboy and the Debutant.

The Cowboy was currently giving Hermione a beady-eyed look. His partner, the Debutant, observed the proceedings with unconcealed (and rather unprofessional) glee. Some of the other international scientists may have been used to working under constant government surveillance, but Hermione was not. Suffice to say she and the agents did _not_ get along.

Presently, Scrimgeour cleared his throat and shut the folder. "Alright, I think I'm all caught up. I've read the official version. Now tell me in your own words why you think Draco Malfoy isn't likely to run the first chance he gets?"

She was ready for his questions, reminding herself that forgiveness was easier to obtain than permission. "He has everything to gain by cooperating with us, sir," Hermione explained. "Consider that he lost everything of value to him the moment his sentence was handed down. We've removed him from jail, promised a pardon and have provided him with a unique opportunity to—"

"_Don't._"

"Don't what, sir?"

"Don't use the 'r' word."

Hermione was confused. Did he mean 'removed'? "I'm not sure I follow?"

"Redeem. _Redemption_."

"Sir, I was actually going to say, 'earn his freedom'."

"But you're implying a chance at redemption will be his primary motivation, are you not?"

Well, she _supposed_ she was implying that. "If it's not his motivation yet, I'm hoping it will become so."

"You're foolish to think that."

Hermione flushed red. She bit back a more acerbic retort. "Will you please explain why you don't agree with my assessment?"

"You're applying your own set of values to his likely motivations. Draco Malfoy is no homicidal maniac, but he likes to profit from chaos. You were not involved in the effort to capture him. You do not know this man like I do. As bad as his father was, Draco makes Lucius look like a playground thug when it comes to the type of games he will play with your mind. You, Hermione, and the people that you lead are not trained to deal with that. He has only ever had one agenda—his own self-interests. Do not assume Draco Malfoy is in any way moved by the plight of those around him. This is a Death Eater than ended up double-crossing the Dark Lord. He is _not_ someone I would want anywhere near this team. There is too much at stake and none of you are replaceable at this late juncture."

"Then how do you propose we get D.R.A.C.O out of him?" Hermione demanded. "We don't have the twelve months it takes to ferment Veritas Potion, which his file indicates that he's impervious to anyway!"

Scrimgeour stood and walked to the blocked-out window that would have overlooked the street outside. It was impossible to tell if it was day or night when you were inside the house. He clasped his hands behind his back and for some reason, turned his attention to the Cowboy.

Who caught Scrimgeour's look and said, "We ask the son of a bitch."

Hermione did not readily offer up her agreement. She knew what men like the Cowboy did for a living. It seemed ridiculous to think that she was actually fulfilling the role of Malfoy's advocate. "What do you mean exactly by 'ask'?"

"We contain him for the duration," the Cowboy continued. "Stick him in a cage until we can confirm if the formula he provides us is legit. If it doesn't pan out, we ask again…only with more stick, less carrot."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "I fail to understand how a cage is any type of carrot to begin with."

"What is meaning of luh-jit? Why we use carrot?" asked Professor Yoshida, the Japanese potions expert. His colleague, an Australian neurobiochemist, assisted by whispering a few, less colloquial synonyms.

Professor Yoshida nodded. He also widened his eyes a little apprehensively at the Cowboy.

The Debutant had a question. "Exactly how volatile is the subject?"

"He killed two Aurors and a Ministry guard with a plastic dinner tray the last time we had him in captivity," Scrimgeour said, his voice flat. "So I'd say _very_ volatile."

The Australian scientist, Dr Mercer, rose to his feet. An ever-present open bag of potato crisps in his hand. "Look, none of the research team came to London to play good cop bad cop with your pet Lex Luthor." He paused in contemplation for a moment, before adding, "With the possible exception of Dr Patil. I reckon she'd be happy to go a few rounds as interrogator…."

Hermione nearly cracked a smile. Padma was their resident laboratory dragon lady.

Dr Mercer continued, "However you manage it, just get the formula out of this guy and we'll synthesize it. Or better yet, he can help us make it. Vast quantities of the stuff. We'll need all hands on deck. Either way, the deadline stands and we're running out of time."

"We'll get it done." Hermione was adamant.

The two experts left the room, leaving Scrimgeour and the American agents. "I'd like a word alone with Hermione," Scrimgeour said.

This did not sit well with the pair, as they were meant to have access to any meetings or activities undertaken within Project Christmas. However, there was no arguing with Scrimgeour on this point. He waited until the agents shut the door behind them, before he spoke to Hermione.

"Who is Lex Luthor?"

The question was unexpected. Hermione blinked for a moment. "He's the villain in the Muggle Superman stories."

Scrimgeour was silent for a moment. When he next spoke, there was more emotion in his voice. "You put this entire operation in jeopardy today."

"How? Harry and I acted alone."

"Precisely because you _chose_ to act alone!"

Hermione refused to look away from his anger, feeling equal parts furious and ashamed.

"You are not a teenager! This is not Hogwarts and I am not Albus Dumbledore! I do not think it appropriate for me to merely hover in the background, fulfilling the role of distant, ambiguous mentor while you undertake dangerous missions that have been cleared by _no one_. I smell Potter's influence in all this."

"No sir, he had nothing to do with it," she whispered, staring mutinously at the Minister. It was as close as he'd ever come to openly disagreeing with Albus Dumbledore's handling of Harry and Voldemort. Hermione gave up trying to match his glare. She closed her eyes, feeling the beginnings of an Olympic-size migraine starting up at her temples. "It was my idea. My plan."

And perhaps it was the obvious signs of her fatigue that eventually caused Scrimgeour's anger to dissipate. He merely sounded tired when he next spoke. "You are valuable, Hermione. Too valuable to risk your life—and Potter's—like you did today. Many of these people would follow you into fire if you asked them to. You and Potter both seem to inspire that kind of loyalty." He said this last part with an air of resigned wonder.

He could have been, but she knew he wasn't specifically referring to Ron. Scrimgeour may have had a temper, but he was never cruel. It didn't matter, anyway. _Everything_ seemed to be about Ron. The quiet of her room. The empty seat across from her at the kitchen table. The haunted look Harry wore when he thought no one was looking.

"I understand that you're using Patil's tether to secure Malfoy?" Scrimgeour said.

Hermione didn't answer.

"Hermione?" he prodded. "The tether works as intended?"

Her head jerked up. "Sorry, yes. The tether works."

"Good. See to it that it continues to do so. Malfoy's life and our safety depend on it."

He dismissed her.

Hermione made her way to the communal bathroom on the first floor, her feet dragging a little. The shower could wait until later. She washed her hands, her arms and her face and then stared at her dripping visage in the mirror. Of course she looked terrible. Fatigue seemed to be hollowing her out such that she was all cheekbones and clavicles, making her brown eyes enormous. Her fingers came up and plucked at the bit of guts that was caught in her hair. She flushed it down the toilet, rinsed out her mouth and brushed her teeth.

And then she went downstairs to go and see Ron.

* * *

**Additional author's notes:**

Feedback = awesome!


	3. Trust

**Author's Notes:**

OK, I HAVE to go work on my thesis now. This will be it for a short while. As usual, feedback would be excellent. The basement area described here is inspired by the similar set up at the 'Hyperion Hotel', from _Angel_. Thanks to everyone who left a review last time. I feel like I'm on the right track for the moment!

Also, if you are enjoying this genre combination and wondering if there are similar stories out there-there certainly are! There is a wealth of zombie fic about to be posted as part of the **HP Zombiefest at livejournal.** Additionally, do check out RZZMG's _'The Dream of Immortality'_, which I have just started reading, as is splendid and well-researched and everything else a good zombie fic needs to be.

* * *

Hermione detoured past the kitchens on her way down to the basement. There was usually someone in there, no matter what time of the day. On this occasion, it was Honoria Cloot, one of the mediwitches.

She was making herself a cup of tea. "Would you like one?" Honoria asked.

Hermione politely declined. Instead, she walked to the pantry and took out some bottled water. Her thirst surprised her, even though she was normally dehydrated after any extended bout of casting _Incendio_. She finished the bottle by the time she took the set of stairs down to the second basement level, opened a bolted door and entered a long concrete room that housed three, steel-barred cells. The smell of antiseptic was very pronounced. She tossed the empty water bottle into a waste receptacle at the base of the stairs.

A visit alone with Ron wasn't on the cards that night, apparently.

Padma Patil was checking Ron's central venous line when Hermione approached the first of the three cells. She paused outside the door until Padma finished replacing the parenteral bag that provided Ron's intravenous nutrition. When it was done, Padma cast a secondary _Scourgify_ over the area, looked up and smiled.

"Hi."

Hermione whispered a sterilisation charm over her person, before passing through the sanitisation barrier that extended around Ron's cell. The outline of the cell glowed green for a moment. It stung slightly to be inside the be-spelled environment, but it was less cumbersome than having to work in a HazMat suit.

"How was he today?" she asked Padma.

"Not so good. If his CVP continues to deteriorate, he's going to be hypovolemic. His blood plasma is…I don't know…his blood volume just keeps _dropping_." Padma's frustration was evident in her voice. "He's not hemorrhaging and I know he's not dehydrated because if we give him any _more_ fluids, he's going to develop congestive heart failure."

"What does our virologist say?"

"McAlister says the symptoms are not dissimilar to advanced rabies infection, but there's also a whole array of things going on that no one has seen happen all at the same time. We just haven't had enough time to study this."

Hermione walked over to Ron and stroked his auburn hair away from his forehead. His skin was sallow and he'd lost a great deal of weight, but for the most part, he still looked like Ron. She couldn't count the number of times she'd stared down at him and expected him to open his blue eyes, corners crinkling, and smile up at her.

Both Hermione and Padma recognised the situation for what it was. Regardless of whether Ron got better or sicker, they were learning more about the Infection every day precisely _because_ of him. When they discussed his condition, they weren't just talking about their friend. They were talking about a living experiment.

Harry didn't understand this, and sometimes, he got angry at what he didn't understand. When he looked at Ron, he saw his sick best friend and what he _wanted_ to see was Hermione doing everything she could to save Ron. And she _was_, but Harry didn't wish to entertain the other reasons for her efforts. He just couldn't fathom how she could have any other reasons. Hermione envied Harry sometimes. In many ways, life was a lot simpler for him.

Padma was now flipping through her notes. "I hate to say this, but I think we may be approaching ReGen's threshold."

Hermione peered over her friend's shoulder. "Where are we up to?"

"Three weeks and five days since he was bitten."

Absently, they both stared at the bandage around Ron's left forearm. Beneath it, was the bite that had caused his Infection.

"He's the longest surviving person on ReGen," Padma said.

"Four weeks is not enough time. We need it to last at least three times as long or it's not going to be of much use to people. Once the cure is manufactured, it's liable to take months just to get enough quantities to the Infected communities."

"Hmm," said Padma, tapping her fingernail against a page. "So we go back to the drawing board on ReGen. Mind you, we didn't have Yoshida, McAlister or Malfoy when we brewed the first batch. There's every chance we'll be able to create a formula that has greater longevity."

"Speaking of Malfoy…" Hermione lowered her voice. "Harry showed him the lab?"

Padma nodded. "And I gave Malfoy a whole stack of notes to read, so he can catch up on what we're doing. I still can't believe he attended Muggle medical school while he was hiding out in Russia..."

"_You_ attended Muggle medical school," Hermione pointed out. "In fact, I think you two are probably the only Purebloods to have done so."

"Ugh." Parma wrinkled her nose. "The less I have in common with him, the better, thank you."

"Don't worry, he didn't do it for altruistic reasons. He wanted to sell potions to Muggles, so he needed a particular skill set that Mediwizadry couldn't provide."

Padma considered this. "Ravenclaw didn't share many potions classes with Slytherin. Was he any good?"

Draco Malfoy had tied with Hermione in their Potions OWLs. "Yes," Hermione said, without hesitation. "He was _very_ good."

Padma was still troubled. "I'm usually adept at reading people, but I can't get a handle on him. All I can pick up is contempt and the occasional glimmer of murderous rage when he looks at Harry."

Hermione snorted as she bent down to smooth Ron's cotton cellular blanket. "Nothing's changed there."

The women were silent for a moment, contemplating the metronomic rise and fall of Ron's chest. And then the SPO2 monitor beeped. Padma walked around the bed to check it.

"He's bloody good-looking though, isn't he?"

"_Padma_."

Padma looked up from her task "What? I can't notice these things?"

Hermione managed to find her first genuine smile of the day. Of the month, probably. "Don't tell Mercer that. He'll get jealous."

"Mercer! That man is infuriating. He drops crumbs all over my lab."

"He thinks very highly of you," said Hermione, primly.

Padma looked up at Hermione, her expression now very serious. "Mercer also happens to think it's high time we had a look inside Ron's brain."

"What, you mean EEG? I distinctly remember stealing one for you."

"No, we need to look _inside_."

Hermione frowned. "I hope you mean _in vivo_?"

"Of course. In fact, Ron's more valuable to us alive than not."

"Padma, I hate it when you speak like a scientist."

Padma walked over to Hermione and touched her on the shoulder. "I'm sorry. I care about him too, you know."

Hermione patted her hand. "I know. So what do we need?"

"An MRI scanner."

"OK. I'll speak to Scrimgeour in the morning."

"This is not something you can steal and bring back here. If you're thinking of installing one in this building, forget it. Mercer says the magnet alone weighs about twelve tons. And you need copper and steel shielding for the room and helium to cool the magnet."

"If we can't bring the machine to Ron, then you're suggesting that we take Ron to the machine?" Hermione concluded.

"Yes."

"_Merlin. _Field trip to a hospital, then."

Padma ran the numbers in her head. "You'll need Mercer to conduct the scan, plus at least four others. Two to look after Ron. Two to handle unwanted company. I'll come, of course."

Hermione shook her head. "You will not. You need to stay behind in case I get eaten. Besides, you have no combat training. Shooting random _Impedimenta_ at Death Eaters at the Battle of Hogwarts doesn't qualify."

Padma's hand was on her hip. She was a natural polymath and disliked being told she wasn't good at anything she set her mind to. "Well if experience matters, then I guess you'll be taking _him_?" She pointed to the cell at the end of the corridor. "He's probably got more combat experience than all of us, combined."

That was probably true. But Hermione didn't trust Malfoy as far as she could throw him, and he was much _bigger_ these days.

"I'll consult with Scrimgeour," was all Hermione said.

Padma nodded. "Alright. I'm turning it. Go to sleep. You look worse than Ron."

"Oh, thanks," said Hermione, with a sigh. "Night."

Hermione watched Padma leave, and then walked over to Ron to give his hand a final, parting squeeze. She exited the cell, locking it behind her. As she made her way to the stairs, a newly familiar voice called out, echoing slightly in the large room.

Funny, she'd been expecting it.

"It's a powerful curiosity you have, Mudblood."

As far as taunts went, it was perfect. Hermione stopped in her tracks, willing herself to keep walking, to ignore Malfoy and not give him the satisfaction. But the taunt also happened to be accurate; sometimes, her curiosity was like a force of nature.

She turned and walked over to him. "And what exactly am I curious about, _Death Eater_?"

Hermione saw that he was sitting on his bunk, one knee drawn up, left arm balancing upon it. He smiled, and even in the darkness, she could see the dull gleam of his teeth, white and even.

"About me, of course. You want answers."

"When it comes to you, Malfoy, somehow I don't think the answers are as important as the right kind of questions."

He rose to his feet, unhurried, and approached the bars. Hermione took a cautionary step backwards, mentally locating her wand inside her jacket. The tether prevented his escape, but it was only their faith in Malfoy's common sense that protected all of them from his violence.

"And what are the right questions?" he asked her.

"I suppose I could ask you how many people you've killed, but I think asking _why_ you killed those people is more interesting."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Would you like to hear my answer?"

Hermione feigned an expression of apprehensive eagerness. She frowned, parted her lips to form the word 'yes', and then abruptly shut them, giving him a small, satisfied smirk.

"No."

There, let him stew in that. Stupid mindgam—

The thought was effectively smothered because his hand darted forward and clamped around her throat. He pulled her towards him, his free hand taking hold of her right wrist. When she scrambled to reach her wand with her left hand, he released her wrist and snaked inside her jacket, the top of his hand brushing the underside of her breast as he acquired her wand.

Which he pressed against her abdomen.

Hermione clawed at his hand whilst simultaneously bracing her feet against the base of the bars to push herself backwards. But still he held firm, despite the fact that she was tearing into his hand with her nails. His grip on her neck shifted until all his fingers were now digging into her trachea, pinching.

"It will hurt if you move, so if you wish it to stop hurting, stop moving," he said, sounding like he was speaking to a tantruming child.

The utter normality of his tone managed to puncture her haze of panic. Hermione ceased her struggles and was rewarded with the slackening of his grip. Still, she could not move without her air supply being cut off.

Malfoy brought his tall, lean body closer to the bars, such that his lips grazed her jawline and whispered directly into her ear. "Good. The game's only fun if you play with me." He tipped his patrician nose downwards, rubbing it against her cheek. She felt the subtle rush of cool air at the spot where he inhaled, completely at odds with the warmth of his breath. Through the gap in the bars, she felt his hip press into her belly. "Six years since I've been this close to a woman, and I find she smells like…hospital soap and—" he inhaled again and she felt him smile against her cheek, "—toothpaste."

He retreated a little, and Hermione got the impression that he had gone slightly off-script, and had to re-focus.

"I don't know how many I've killed. But I can tell you that each death was necessary. A means to an end, whether it was to save my life, the life of an associate or simply as dialogue. Nothing sends a message quite like _Avada Kedavra_. If it suited my needs, I killed. _Needs_, Mudblood. Not _wants_."

Hermione tried to push him away with her hands, but paused when the end of her wand was pressed deeper into her belly.

Malfoy continued. "It did not suit my needs to be a law-abiding citizen, because I did not live among law-abiding people. But now I find I have more options available to me. Here and now, it _does not_ suit my needs to behave...like this."

He removed his fingers from her throat and as Hermione gasped in a lungful of unobstructed air, she felt him unfurl her tense, fisted fingers and gently slip her wand into her hand.

Now armed, Hermione stepped backwards, furious. She aimed her wand at him.

Malfoy remained at the bars, an easy, unmoving target. "You're not going to ever trust me. I wouldn't ask it and anyone who tells you to is a fool or a liar. But I do ask that you put some faith in my commitment to self-preservation. And in my intelligence. For these are the things that guide my actions." His silver gaze dropped from her face, to her mouth, and then lower still…until Hermione felt the urge to pull her jacket shut. "Well, most of the time," he added. And she wished to Merlin that he would smirk or sneer, but he looked disconcertingly serious.

Hermione glanced down at his left hand, and saw that blood from the gouges she had torn into it was dripping on the floor. She could still feel his fingers on her throat, but the particular grip he used would probably not leave any bruises.

She wanted to punish him. He should not be allowed to get away with menacing anyone like that, no matter that he was trying to prove a point. It was then that she saw the book; the one he had taken with him from his Azkaban cell. It was obviously of some value to him, and here it was, lying on his bunk beside a stack of papers that had to be the notes Padma had given him to read.

"_Accio_," she Summoned the book, noting how hoarse her voice sound. It flew into her hands.

Malfoy did not seem to be in the least bit perturbed by the loss of his precious book. Instead, he smirked.

"Sleep well, Granger. Pleasant reading."

Hermione practically jogged back to her room. She shut the door and opened the book. Her hands shook when she realised what she was looking at.

It wasn't a novel after all.

_Son of a bitch_. Was everything a calculated game to him?

It was the formula to make D.R.A.C.O, only there was one section missing, torn out of the book.

Clever, clever man.


	4. Taransay

**Author's Notes:**

Thanks so much for the feedback! Work's been picking up, so writing this has provided short moments of respite. This chapter was originally too long, so I split it into two chapters instead.

This and the following chapter are Hermione-heavy. The scene between Harry and Hermione was inspired by a conversation I had with my five-year old. She asked me (as she so often does, lately), "Mummy, are you writing study or story?"

"Story," I said. "About Harry Potter fighting zombies!"

Her look of supreme confidence was what got the rest of this chapter written. "Don't worry, Mummy, Harry Potter will win!"

Will he, though? :D

Please review if you can! Oh, and Happy Halloween, everyone!

* * *

Ginny Weasley was nearly done running through the list of supplies that were to be sent to the refugee community on Taransay Island in Scotland's Outer Hebrides. There were approximately five hundred un-Infected Magical and Muggle folk living in a tent city on the Island. Magic alone could not produce all that they needed, and so the community relied on monthly supplies sent from military provision stores via regulated Portkey. Scrimgeour oversaw the coordination of the supply deliveries and was the entrusted Keeper of the Portkey.

In many ways, Taransay was an ideal safe zone considering there were no harbours for large vessels to moor anywhere on the island. Everyone who currently resided there had been given the medical all-clear and was then transported from different parts of the UK. One of the first containment measured the Magical community leaders had taken was to disable Floo transportation across the globe, thus mitigating the inadvertent transmission of Infected individuals from one part of the world to another. Likewise, Apparation was also highly restricted. The entire Weasley Family (bar Ron and Charlie) had been successfully evacuated to Taransay.

There were six other Magically-managed safe zones around Britain, and Scrimgeour's Grimmauld Place operation coordinated supplies to _all _of them—food, medicine, clothing, blankets, shelter, news, and of course, ReGen.

A person could easily lose sleep if they thought about what a mammoth, all-consuming responsibility this was. Harry certainly lost sleep thinking about it. He'd lost so much sleep he was surprised his colleagues weren't finding his missing sleep scattered all over the house. Not that it would have done anyone else much good. Being an anxious insomniac was not a problem strictly confined to Harry.

Still, Harry considered his problems to be relatively minor.

It was far from ideal living in the Magical safe zones, but the conditions were far worse in the Muggle military-run camps. They tended to be less successful in keeping all of their sites free of Infection.

The fact was that it just took one Infected.

Just _one_…

It spread so quickly. Harry would always remember the first time he'd seen it happen. It was like some sadistic, mad god had clicked 'play' on the plague button and then stuck his finger down on fast-forward. ReGen nipped that in the bud, of course. Every sensible person still hiding out in the city had, by now, collected a supply of the drug from a drop-off point. It wouldn't cure you, but it would keep the Infection at bay; slow down time, so to speak.

Ginny paused in her recitation of the supplies list, and gave Harry a gentle, assessing look. "Did you get all that?"

He admitted that he hadn't, so she ended up repeating the last five items, then paused when she came to the final thing on her list.

"And a crate of teddies, if you can manage it."

Harry pushed his glasses further up his nose and glanced up from his clipboard. "Silk, lace or satin?"

Ginny smiled. This was something she did rarely since Ron's Infection. "Teddy _bears_, I mean. At last count, we have about fifty kids here and not many toys. There was a vote as to what most of them wanted—teddies, apparently. We conjured up a fair bit of play items, of course. But some of the twitchier Muggles don't want their kids playing with anything magic. And sadly, this includes _other_ kids."

"Funny how they seem willing enough to put up with the tents, the food and the medicine," Harry noted, wryly.

"Don't mind them. Remember that they only found out about Magical folk barely three months ago," Ginny reminded. "They're just scared."

"You are as kind as you are beautiful," said Harry, with mock solemnity. "And you shall have your teddy bears."

She smiled again. "Thank you. Now do write it down before you forget."

He wrote it down. The list was written in triplicate. One copy was dispatched to the military supply barracks at St John's Hill. One copy stayed with Scrimgeour. The third copy was given to Padma and Honoria Cloot, who packed the medicines.

"Is that all of it?" he asked Ginny.

"Yes." She eyed him for a moment. "Harry, when can you come here? Not permanently, I mean. I know you and Hermione have the mission, but I'm talking about a quick visit."

Harry wished it was night-time. He wished that most of the people wandering about the house were asleep and not liable to knock on the door at any minute to come in for a much needed kip on the old lounge. Or to see if there was time left in the Floo transmission to chat with someone else at Taransay. Or simply to ask him, Harry, to come and attend to the myriad tasks he was responsible for, day in, day out.

He wished for some privacy.

Harry lowered his voice and hoped he didn't sound as morose as he felt. "I'm sorry Gin. I want to go. Very much, but I can't just yet."

She leant closer into the fire. Even tinged Floo-green and skinnier than she ought to ever be, she was beautiful—all thick red curls, big blue eyes and impossibly fine skin. It was a testament to how exhausted Harry felt, that all he longed to do with Ginny was spoon up behind her, anchor himself to her slender frame and sleep the sleep of the (untroubled) dead. Perhaps he would dream of waking up to a breakfast cooked by Molly Weasley, who, bless her, thought that bacon made up three of the five food groups.

"I miss you," she whispered. And there were about five Hallmark cards worth of sentiment in those three simple words.

"I miss you, too," Harry replied. It was an equal understatement.

"Maybe I could come to London for a bit?" Ginny hazarded. She glanced to her left and nodded to someone who walked into the room, on her end of the transmission. Privacy was also at a premium at Taransay.

"Not a chance! It's called a safety zone for a reason. It's _safe_. Besides, if you come here, you'll have to get medical clearance to go back, and you remember how you hated the tests from last—Ginny?"

She wasn't looking at him anymore. Ginny was frowning at whoever was speaking to her. She stood. All Harry could see was her denim-clad lower half and her hands, which were clasped together now—tightly.

"Gin?"

And then he heard the shouting, followed by the familiar sharp staccato bursts of automatic gun fire. Not from Grimmauld Place. _It was coming from Taransay_. Suddenly she was kneeling at the fireplace to speak to him. The look on her face robbed him of breath.

"Oh, Merlin. Harry…Harry they're _here_."

Now he was kneeling at the fire, too, so close to her that he could see every freckle standing out against the paleness of her skin. "What do you mean they're there? _Who's_ there?" But he knew what she meant. And she knew that he knew.

The other person spoke to her again and she tried to wave them off. But they didn't go and Harry didn't know whether to thank them or hate them for pulling Ginny to her feet and dragging her away from the fire. To safety, he hoped.

After an agonising few minutes, Neville Longbottom's haggard face appeared in the green flames. "Harry! Is Scrimgeour with you right now?"

"Neville! No, he's upstairs. What in Merlin's name is happening?"

"We don't know how they got here. There was—the guards said there was a barge of some sort that floated over from the mainland. It shouldn't have happened! We should have been bloody watching the coast!"

"Never mind that! How many?" Harry demanded. He wanted to reach through the fire and ironically shake some coherence into his friend. "Tell me! What do you need us to do?"

"So many, Harry! Send help! We—"

Neville disappeared. The Floo transmission ended and the green flames began to fizzle.

The fire snuffed out.

Harry was already sprinting up the stairs.

* * *

Hermione knew exactly what he'd do.

She'd _known_ the moment Scrimgeour shut the door and said to Harry to calm down, to sit, to listen. This is why she ran to the attic just in time to see Harry strap on his flying vambraces and protective, padded leather vest.

"Leave off, Hermione," Harry said, without looking at her. He pulled the straps on his vambrace through the metal loops and attached them with Velcro. "I'm going."

It was now five hours since Taransay had been compromised and in that time, all Floo communication attempts to the Island had been unsuccessful. Three owls sent—all returned with their missives still attached to their legs. Scrimgeour had made the call and for the umpteenth time, Hermione was glad she didn't have his job. He would _not_ allow Harry to use the Portkey because crazy unsanctioned missions were _not_ what the Portkey was for. There were two-hundred and twenty-five able-bodied wizards and witches on Taransay Island, which by Scrimgeour's estimation was enough to defend the community from an unexpected zombie horde.

What could _one_ additional wizard do? Even if that wizard was Harry Potter?

But it was precisely because he was Harry Potter that Harry would go. Hermione wanted very much to believe that Harry truly had the power to overcome insurmountable odds, to make miracles happen, to be the story-book hero that always triumphed. After all, he had done this so many times in the past. Though, that had been before the Infection. Here was a problem that could not be conquered even with Harry's courage and preternatural luck. This was…well, it was quite frankly beyond him to single-handedly fix.

Hermione walked up to him. "Take this," she said, handing Harry a utility belt laden with what looked like ampules of absinthe. He gave her an impatient, questioning look, which immediately softened when he noticed the tear that had escaped her self-control.

"It's Zombie napalm," she explained.

"Padma's?"

She shook her head. "No, one of mine. Just remember to keep your distance when you launch one. Ten meters at the very least."

Harry remained standing beside the open window, broom propped up against the frame. A breeze was blowing. His hair was ridiculously long, she thought. But oddly, the wild look suited him. His hair would never take a part, or a combing, without a fight.

"Thank you," he said.

Hermione threw herself into his arms. Ron had once said she didn't know how to hug without making it seem like it was the last time she was going to see a person. _High intensity hugs_, he'd called them. It wasn't her fault. Many of her hugs seemed to happen at precisely those kinds of moments. And regrettably, there had been too many such moments in their relatively short lives.

"Please don't go, Harry," she pleaded, just in case he decided to be amenable to reason.

"I _have_ to go," he insisted. "I know I have responsibilities here…." he said, echoing one of Scrimgeour's reasons for denying Harry the permission he sought, and the Portkey. "But I'm not like you. I can't do this greater good business. It's Ginny and Molly and the family…" His voice caught.

She squeezed his hand. "It's alright, Harry. I know."

"I'm not taking anyone else away from this operation. Scrimgeour has it right. You and the others are important. You need to keep working on a cure."

"And you think you're not important?"

He gave her a rare look; a look that said he understood something she did not. "This war is going to be won with this," he told her, touching her lightly at her temple, "not with this." He palmed his holstered wand.

"No. We need _both_. We need you."

He didn't reply. Hermione released his hands and watched in misery as he pulled on his flying goggles, strapped on the utility belt and picked up his broom. With a heavy sigh, she reached out to touch him on the arm. Harry turned to face her with a resigned, tender expression and opened his mouth to reassure her that yes, he would take care...

But that was not all she wanted from him. "There's one last thing, Harry. I'll need the other end of Malfoy's tether."

The tender look faltered a little. Hermione did not want to have to be the one to remember the bigger picture, to put the mission above what she really wanted to do and say. She did not want Harry to look at her this way now, like she was someone he loved, but sometimes struggled to recognise.

Without a word, he hiked up his right vambrace and after a breath or two of concentration, the golden skein appeared. Hermione untied it and then waited as Harry knotted it around her wrist instead.

"Good luck," he whispered. He kissed her on the top of her head and then launched onto his broom.

Hermione remained at the window, watching the sky above the rooftops until she could no longer see him. And then she allowed herself a minute or so of quiet tears. When it was time to shut the window, she looked down at the street and was startled to see him.

Corrections—_it_

One of the Infected.

It had once been a teenager in a red hoodie and black shorts. The zombie was in good shape, having retained all its appendages, eyes and skin, and sported no outward signs of bites or mangling. Number 12, Grimmauld Place was magically veiled from prying eyes on the street, but opening the attic window effectively permitted a glimpse into the house. The zombie had probably been making its way down the street when the ripples in the veil had caught its attention, the same way a waggling finger outside a goldfish's bowl might.

Unlike a goldfish, however, it stared, unwavering. Hermione stared back, disconcerted to find herself the object of its seemingly rapt attention. But that couldn't be.

The Infected were not _capable_ of rapt attention.

And as if to allay her concerns, the zombie turned away and resumed its shuffle down the street. Hermione watched its progress. She mentally filed the incident away and then went to break the news of Harry's unauthorised departure to Scrimgeour.


	5. Understanding

**Author's Notes:**

Occasionally, it bothers me that there is such a conspicuous _lack_ of mention of toileting, bathing or showering in stories. Sometimes, for_chapters and chapters_. No one takes a leak. No one starts to stink and has to stop being a hero for the duration of a quick wash. It used to be that there was hardly any mention of contraception in romantic fiction. It was all just assumed. And then we started seeing condoms and versions of 'Contraceptus' popping up in the middle of even the most flowery, lyrically written sex scenes in HP fanfic, which I think is great and socially responsible. But still, where are all the toilets? If you've read my other fics, bathrooms tend to feature quite prominently. Heck, they are almost plot devices, as is evidenced by this chapter. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please leave me a note. No contraception was used or indeed, required for this part. Maybe later…

Thanks for reading.

* * *

At about ten o'clock that night, after half an hour of searching, Dr Alec Mercer finally found Hermione back in the attic.

She was at the window, looking down at the street. There were no streetlights, but it was a full moon. Everyone in the house was aware of this fact because Felix Wallen (brilliant microbiologist and occasional lycanthrope), was currently occupying one of the cells in the lower basement level. There, he waited out his transformation with the assistance of Wolfsbane Potion.

"There you are!" Mercer said, shutting the attic door behind him. His bag of potato crisps was conspicuously absent. Hermione suspected Padma had had something to do with that. "I've been up and down the house looking for you. Patil was concerned you'd flown off to join Potter."

Hermione spoke without turning around to look at him. "Not likely. I don't really fly…much." Or _at all_, more like it.

"Oh? I thought all you magical folk had broomsticks?"

"It seems I am missing the aptitude," she confessed. "You said Padma needed me?"

"Yes. Luthor's asking for you."

It took Hermione a moment to remember that Mercer referred to Malfoy as 'Lex Luthor'.

"What does he want?"

The Australian scientist overturned an empty crate and dragged it over to the window to sit beside Hermione. "He won't say anything other than, _send for the Mudblood_." Mercer effectively mimicked Malfoy's finely-calibrated, imperious way of speaking. "I asked Patil about him and she said that you've known him since you were eleven years old. _Please_ tell me that he had a horrible adolescence involving shortness, bad skin, hand-me-downs and bullying?"

This managed to garner a snort from Hermione. "Sadly, no. As for the bullying, suffice to say that _he_ perpetrated most of it."

Mercer looked grim. "Yeah, I've known guys like him."

Hermione shook her head. "Not like Malfoy, you haven't." She finally looked at Mercer, who frowned when he saw the expression on her face.

"Why are you up here, anyway?"

She beckoned him closer toward the window. "Come and take a look at this. Tell me what you see."

Mercer stood next to her and stared out the window, quickly locating the source of her apparent concern.

It was the zombie in the red hoodie again.

They were silent for a minute, and then Mercer whistled low. "'S'truth. He's not just looking. He's _watching_."

"Yes. He was there earlier when Harry left. I think he must have seen the window open. I assumed that the movement simply caught his attention. But now he's back." She folded her arms and regarded Mercer with a troubled expression. "Alec, you're the brain expert, what do you think this means?" Apart from the fact we're referring to it as 'him', Hermione thought. When did that happen?

Mercer appeared to be considering the possibilities.

"If he's watching and waiting, this looks to be more than just implicit memory at work. That's declarative memory. He's processing something semantic—that a window opened and he's managed to combine that fact with the personal experience of walking down Grimmauld Place earlier and remembering that a window suddenly appeared in between Numbers 11 and 13…"

Hermione frowned. "But that means he _remembered_! I thought that was impossible!"

"It ought to be given the level of deterioration we've seen in the hippocampus and the lateral prefrontal cortex."

"So what, then? They're evolving?"

Mercer rubbed his jaw. "Not them, the virus. I'll speak with McAlister. It's likely the virus has mutated and it just isn't doing what it once did. By the way, speaking of terrifying, underwear-soiling prospects, I've been hearing talk of an excursion to a hospital."

"You heard right. I've discussed with Scrimgeour the idea of having Ron undergo an MRI scan." Hermione gave Mercer a slightly sheepish look. "If we go…"

"I'll have to come," he surmised. "Resident brain expert, and all."

"Look, I'll understand if you—"

"Hell, yes, I'll go! And while we're there, I'm thinking it might be a good idea to also have a look at one of the Infected, if we can manage it?"

Hermione's eyes widened slightly. "You want to put a zombie in an MRI machine?"

Mercer nodded; a familiar, manic gleam in his eye. Hermione knew she sometimes sported the same look and vaguely wondered if the expression on her face right now mirrored the one Harry sometimes wore in response to her own Eureka moments.

_Oh, Harry_. She couldn't handle thinking about him without her stomach doing summersaults.

"Think of all we could learn!" Mercer was saying.

He then proceeded to list, in painstakingly fine, neurobiochemical detail, all that they could learn. He didn't really need to do this, because he had her at, "It could be the key to helping Ron."

* * *

Shortly before midnight, Hermione made her way downstairs to the containment cells. Five minutes was spent looking in on Ron (no change), a further minute spent checking on a slumbering Dr Wallen (who was making bone-chilling, growling noises in his sleep), before she finally stopped at Malfoy's cell.

He was pacing—no—_prowling_ about his cell, his long legs eating up the floor. Hermione sensed extreme annoyance. She also sensed it was directed at her tardiness in responding to his demand to see her.

She took out her wand. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

He didn't smirk at her. Oh yes, he was most definitely annoyed. "What do I want? Let me see… A city? A house? A room? Maybe a bed?" He paused. "How about a woman?"

_The shining joy and jewel of all my kingdom, _Hermione silently completed the last line of the Sanskrit poem he was alluding to. And then promptly wanted to kick herself. Romantic poetry and Draco Malfoy was a match made in lunacy. He excelled at making her distinctly unsettled on levels she didn't want to give any further thought to.

"We're fresh out of all the above. What else do you want?"

Malfoy walked to the bars and Hermione surreptitiously double-checked that she was well out of arm's reach. He saw that little flicker of concern and of course the bastard rewarded her with a small, knowing look. He was markedly less presentable than he'd been four days ago, now sporting a dark blonde shadow over the lower half of his face, and still wearing the same set of black, prison robes. Only now they were wrinkled and dusty at the knees. Padma had given him some salve and a bandage for his injured hand.

He toyed absently with the bandage.

"I want a bath," he said, and she believed him.

"That I can do, but I'd like the missing section of your D.R.A.C.O formula."

He snorted. "Hardly a fair trade."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How long has it been since you've had a bath?"

Six years, she'd wager.

Hermione had read the specifications for Seamus' automated prison cell. The cell's magic meant that a daily cleansing charm refreshed the bedding and the prisoner's clothing. It also eliminated dust, grime and dirt on _everything_—prisoner included. Basic grooming spells were set to operate at the start of each day—hair and nails maintained at a pre-programmed length. The only source of water present inside the cell was in the toilet, which had no flush. Waste was automatically transferred to a septic management facility outside the prison.

"Allow me a bath and perhaps my mood will be so significantly improved that I may just provide you with an additional page?" He raised both brows in eagerness, and this wiped about five years off his face. "What do you say?"

She'd probably say that he must _really_ want a bath. After that much 'dry cleaning', a bath or a hot shower would be high on anyone's list of superficial wants.

"Frankly, I doubt I'd notice or care if your mood improved."

He regarded her with an almost amused quizzicality. "I don't remember you being quite so flippant."

"I don't remember you being quite so completely at my mercy."

Malfoy laughed—short and sharp. "Touché, Mudblood."

"Don't call me that."

He watched her, carefully. "But it doesn't bother you, does it? How curious. You realise I can _see_ that it doesn't. The others turn purple and apoplectic. You merely roll your eyes. Tell me, is it the word, or is it just me? Don't say I've lost my edge since Hogwarts?"

"No, more likely I've _gained_ one." Hermione sucked in a breath, stepped forward and prepared to unlock the door to his cell.

He remained within the cell, still watching her with the assessing gaze of a predatory bird. It was now or never. Eventually, he would have to venture upstairs to work with the others in the lab. His previous attempt to convince her that she should trust his commitment to self-preservation had provided Hermione with much food for thought over the past few days. She hoped she wouldn't live to regret her decision, or the fact that he was tethered to her now.

Draco Malfoy had become her responsibility.

"Let us be clear, Malfoy. Escape and your pardon will be withdrawn. Hurt me or anyone else and your pardon will be withdrawn. It's martial law on the streets—for both Muggles and Magical folk. Law enforcement and vigilante mobs have been known to execute looters. So consider what they'd do to a convicted murderer and terrorist."

The door slid open.

"That's if you're not killed by the Infected. Do you understand?"

He stepped out of the cell, walked around her, crowding her again. Hermione suspected he could be on the other end of the corridor and _still_ manage to crowd her. She tightened her grip on her wand and remained stock still. Malfoy walked the length of the corridor, pausing at both Wallen's and Ron's cells, respectively. Having been incarcerated in the basement for four days, he was likely well aware of Ron's condition.

There, lying in that hospital bed, was her Achilles' heel. Hermione could steel herself against any manner of barbs Malfoy threw at her about her blood, her intellect, her worthiness, but not about Ron. Now with Harry at Taransay, she felt even more vulnerable, more exposed, less…_strong_. Curiously, she didn't feel more alone, though. Being an only child and caught between two worlds for so long, alone was a state of affairs she was accustomed to.

She steeled herself for the comments and the cruel, calculated jibes.

They didn't come.

Whatever he was thinking about Ron, or even Wallen, Malfoy kept his thoughts to himself. Hermione wasn't naïve enough to believe it was due to any regard for her feelings. Rather, she suspected he knew her charity and patience that day had reached its limit.

His curiosity about his immediate environment now appeased, Malfoy finally walked over to her. The top of her head barely reached his shoulders.

"I understand," he said, looking down at her.

Despite being unwashed for four days, he didn't exactly reek—as Ron or Harry would most certainly have. She supposed he just smelled more strongly of himself. It wasn't unpleasant. She didn't know what it was, but she seemed aware of it, all the same. It was probably her frayed nerves. Frankly, part of her was still expecting him to snap her neck the first chance he got.

Hermione led him up the stairs and past the labs, where several staff members were still working.

Music drifted out. Someone was playing Michael Bublé. One of the younger mediwitches appeared, took one look at Malfoy before scurrying back inside the lab. Hermione thought she might have even detected a squeak.

A moment later, there were five people standing outside the lab entrance, all gawking.

The wizarding members among the staff were well aware of who Draco Malfoy was. Those who did not know—and this comprised their Muggle and overseas experts—had since been filled in.

"Evening, everyone," said Hermione, tersely. Honestly, she's expected a little more professionalism.

There were distracted nods and a few mummers. The group parted to make way for Elizabeth Kent, one of the Wizarding Intelligence Agents from the US. She exited the labs and came to a halt before Hermione and Malfoy.

Hermione sighed, sensing the imminent application of liberal quantities of red tape.

"You're not authorised to release the Subject," Kent said to Hermione, as predicted.

Hermione was in no mood to be diplomatic. "The Subject would like a bath. Go and run to Scrimgeour if you have a problem with it. I'm sure he'll be _thrilled_ to be woken up in the middle of the night after being awake for two days straight."

"You must be the Debutante," Malfoy said, in a honey and cinnamon voice that made Hermione roll her eyes. "I've heard quite a bit about you."

Kent was tall, lithe, blonde and severely proper, along with possessing the warmth and charisma of a metal stool. Nevertheless—and to Hermione's resigned fascination– the agent flushed bright red under Malfoy's calculated scrutiny.

It was a completely superficial point, but Hermione felt twice as short and dumpy, standing beside the lanky pair.

"Malfoy, this is one of our associates from the US Wizarding Senate, Agent Elizabeth Kent. Elizabeth, this is Draco Malfoy. Or the 'Subject', as you prefer to call him."

"Shouldn't he be shackled?" Kent asked. She had regained her alabaster complexion and was looking down her perfect nose, at Hermione.

Hermione counted to five before replying. "He's not going to be able to work in the laboratory if he's handcuffed, is he?"

"And what about the tether? How is it going to work if Potter's not here?"

_Damn it_. Hermione had not been intending to reveal to Malfoy just yet that she was his tether-partner, or that Harry had left London. Oh well, it was inevitable that he'd find out.

"He's tethered to me now," Hermione explained.

"Am I?" Malfoy drawled, almost under his breath.

"Yes."

He stood very close to Hermione, giving her a smile without teeth. "Interesting."

"I think the word you're looking for is _necessary_."

It occurred to Hermione that everyone was watching them. Kent, especially.

She cleared her throat. "Agent Kent, if there is nothing further, I'd like to show Malfoy the bathroom?"

* * *

There was a bathroom on the laboratory level, though it was seldom used except in the event of someone catching on fire (a fascinated Mercer had asked Harry for a demonstration of _Incendio_) or when large pieces of equipment needed to be cleaned. The claw-footed tub in the middle of the green and black tiled room was large and therefore would suit just fine. There was no mirror in the bathroom. A minute or so was spent checking that there was also nothing sharp, pointy, blunt or heavy to be found in the only cupboard. There were just towels, soap and a tin of shoe polish. Hermione pocketed the shoe polish. She took soap and a towel from the cupboard, paused, and then grabbed a second towel. Malfoy would probably need two, she decided.

She handed him the soap and towels, which he took in one arm, without thanks. "I'm locking you in," Hermione said, her voice echoing off the tile in the cavernous room. "Will one hour suffice?" She checked her wrist watch. It was almost one in the morning.

"An hour is plenty," Malfoy replied. He had already unfastened his cuffs and was making quick work of the buttons down the front of his robes.

Hermione discreetly turned around, walked out the door and shut it behind her. She locked it and then leaned against it, closing her eyes. The day could not _possibly_ get any longer or any more eventful.

She was wrong.

There were three quick knocks from the other side of the door. Her eyes snapped open. Frowning, she removed the locking charm and opened the door.

"The taps aren't working," he said.

The top half of Malfoy's robes were on the floor, which left him in a pair of black trousers with the waistband already unbuttoned. His body was as pale as the rest of him, with a light, sparse dusting of golden hair across his chest and forearms. There was a surprising amount of muscle on him, considering the fact he'd been confined to a room for six years.

But it was the criss-crossing of scars along his abdomen and back that caught her attention. There were, quite literally, _dozens_ of fine, raised, diagonal white lines bisecting the taught skin of his belly and back. The longest ones ran over his hip muscles, disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. The scars were obviously healed now, but the sheer number of them meant that at some point in time, his torso would have been a raw and bloody mess. A life-threatening mess, even.

Hermione's sterling imagination supplied the likely image of the fresh injuries and she couldn't help but wince. She hoped he didn't hear it, but he did.

To her annoyance, his expression was unreadable, though she thought she sensed some resignation there. Being Hermione, she took the express route to assuaging her curiosity.

"What happened to you?" A likely suspect popped into her head. "Was it Voldemort?"

He was silent for a moment, and then, "Would you prefer that it had been?" he asked, very quietly. His low voice still echoed in the room.

She didn't understand his question. "I would prefer an honest answer."

Almost absently, he looked down at his belly, running the tips of one long-fingered hand over his scar tissue. She wondered if he probably forgot they were there most of the time.

"I was twenty. Three Aurors captured me and another Death Eater. Unlike my colleague, I was of no use to them, so they shared a bottle of gin and took turns with a flat razor."

Hermione was somewhat relieved to note that she was not so desensitised by the horror and gore of the past four months, to not be affected by what Malfoy had just told her. Even if was _Malfoy_ doing the telling.

There had always been rumours of bad eggs within the DMLE, but the thing about old, entrenched systems was that they tended to develop a life of their own. After a while, the system became a living breathing thing and it defended itself at any hint of an attempt to cut off a necrotic arm or leg, even at risk of poisoning the rest of the body. It was a different kind of slower, more insidious, Infection.

"You said you were of no use to them? Do you mean you had no information that would have been important enough to bring you into custody?"

"No," he said. "I was of no use to them because unlike my more unfortunate colleague, _I wasn't a girl_."

Hermione felt ill. She glanced down at her hands for a moment, which she had clasped around her wand, before looking up. "Bad people are to be found anywhere, if you care to look." There seemed to be nothing else suitable to say.

He smiled at her. There was nothing friendly about it. It was a cold smile, full of swirling, dark potential. "Indeed. There's one right here in this room."

The moment of shared humanity between them dissipated like so much smoke. Hermione supposed it may have only happened in her own mind. The sinister look faded, and he went back to being impatient again.

"Are you going to fix the water supply or not?"

Oh_. Right._

"I forget that water rationing kicks in after eleven," she said, as she removed the spells over the plumbing, and then twisted the brass, hot water tap. The pipes bellowed for a moment, before gushing hot water. "There you go."

Again, there was no 'thank you', just the unnerving, ever-constant, damnable, watching. Not completely unlike the zombie in the red hoodie, Hermione thought, with a mental shudder.

His hands were on the waistband of his trousers when Hermione hurriedly shut the bathroom door behind her and locked it for the second time. She scowled down at her own hands, which were shaking slightly.

With an hour to kill, Hermione thought she might sneak a much-needed swig or two from McAlister's supply of Equilibrium Restorer (read: aged whiskey) in the kitchen cupboards.

It was that kind of night.

* * *

**Additional Author's notes:**

I didn't know what those hips muscles on guys are called. So I googled, 'what are those hip muscles on guys called' and I got answers like, 'yummy', 'heaven' and 'delicious'. Which I'm sure is not accurate. Sometimes, Google can fail you. If anyone knows, let me know.

I've used this poem in one of my other stories—I can't remember which. Anyway, here it is in its entirety. It's an old favourite and has no attributed author.

_Although I conquer all the earth,  
Yet for me there is only one city.  
In that city there is for me only one house;  
And in that house, one room only;  
And in that room, a bed.  
And one woman sleeps there,  
The shining joy and jewel of all my kingdom_


	6. Goldilocks

"Baby Bear to Mama Bear, I'm in the cottage!" came Emily Finch's static-tinged voice through the headset. The student nurse was loitering conspicuously at the mouth of an alley.

"I hear you and see you, Baby Bear. You're doing brilliantly. Just sit tight until Papa Bear gives us the signal, OK?"

"I think you're meant to say 'copy that'," Padma suggested.

"Oh?" From their vantage point over a terrace roof top, Padma and Hermione were watching their morning mission unfold.

"Are the call signs really necessary?"

Hermione shrugged. "What's life without whimsy?" She was fully occupied watching Emily's position through a pair of binoculars.

"Whimsy?" Padma muttered. "We're about to use a nineteen-year old girl as bait…"

It occurred to Hermione that she, Harry and Padma often applied vastly different standards of maturity to the younger team members in their charge. She supposed they could be accused of being slightly hypocritical, considering that Hermione and Harry, in particular, had regularly put themselves in dangerous situations since before puberty.

Albus Dumbledore was either very confident in their abilities, or he had some rather relaxed views regarding child endangerment. Neither theory was palatable, frankly.

"She volunteered for this," Hermione pointed out to Padma.

"I suppose the field of contenders for the two-hundred meter zombie dash was rather thin," Padma said.

"Emily was a track star at her college back in the US. She thought she could help."

Agent Richards' gravelly baritone came through the headset. "Papa Bear now in position. We're ready."

"These headsets are posh," Padma commented, touching her virtually invisible ear piece.

Hermione was in agreement. "Got to hand it to the Americans—they don't do things by halves."

The two women sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying a rare dose of unimpeded mid-morning sunshine. Padma took a sip from her water bottle and then offered it to a grateful Hermione, whose fair skin was already sunburnt.

"Why call this operation _Goldilocks_, though? I always found that story rather disturbing."

"The Cowboy's idea," Hermione said. "Apparently Mercer wanted the specimen to be 'just right'."

"And how are we going to guarantee that?" Padma wondered. "We're not going to have much choice in whatever Emily manages to lure into that alley."

Hermione sat up in rigid attention, adjusting the binoculars "Speaking of—here we go! Baby Bear, Goldilocks in on approach. Merlin, we have ten! No, make that twelve! Papa Bear, do you see this?"

"Yeah, I see 'em," said Richards, who sounded infuriatingly calm. "More importantly, Baby Bear, _they see you_. Goldilocks is on the move. You get on your starting block, you hear?"

Everyone could hear Emily's ragged breathing. "Oh, Jesus," the girl whispered. A few profanities followed. Hermione concurred heartily with them all.

"I don't like this," Padma said.

_One minute_.

"Closing in…" Hermione told the team.

"Now?" Emily hissed.

"Not yet," said the Cowboy. "Wait."

_Thirty seconds._

Hermione was practically hanging over the roof parapet now. "Papa Bear, are you sure? They're speeding up."

_Twenty seconds._

"_Now_?" Emily implored.

"Almost," said Richards. "We don't want them to quit the chase as soon as she's out of sight; their vision is based on movement. Like T-Rex, remember?"

"That's not technically accurate," Padma pointed out. "The Tyrannosaurus Rex's vision was actually more sophisticated than—"

"NOW! NOW! NOW!" shouted Richards, nearly perforating Hermione's ear drum. "Baby Bear, GO!"

Emily ran, blowing a rape whistle as she went. As predicted, the zombies gave chase. The noise and movement was impressive for a relatively small group. They snarled, goose-stepped and lurched. The scene might have been amusing if it weren't straight out of a nightmare. All of the team members had seen what happened when even the most lumbering, seemingly inept horde got a hold of fresh meat.

They ripped into it like day-old bread.

"Damn, she's fast!" Padma observed.

Hermione's chest hurt from holding her breath. "Good thing, too! She's nearly at the fence! Wallen! Yoshida! Are you ready?"

Felix Wallen's soft, steady, voice sounded over the radio. "We're ready."

Emily hit the fence running, fairly leaping onto it. She scrambled over with impressive athleticism and was met on the other side by the ever stoic Wallen, and Professor Yoshida.

The zombies collided with the metal fence so violently that some of the pack members at the front were crushed; pulpy, bloated bodies splitting against rusted metal, spilling putrid viscous fluid the colour of pus. Their feral bloodlust destroyed any sense of culinary discretion they might have had and the remaining pack members began to feed on their incapacitated counterparts. The weight pushing against the fence intensified. It began to creak and buckle.

"It's going to fall over," Padma predicted.

"Now, Wallen!" Hermione yelled.

Wallen and Yoshida went on a _Petrificus_ free-for all. In short time the entire pack was frozen in place. Many lay on the ground, in pieces. The remainder of the team Apparated into the alley, regrouping on the other side of the fence.

"Merlin, that was close," Padma said.

Professor Yoshida gave Emily a high-five. "Very good job!" said the elderly Potions Master.

Emily beamed.

Hermione approached the fence, trying to make out where one creature started and another began. Unfortunately, there weren't many viable specimens left. Nearly all were sporting serious mangling from the feeding frenzy. In due course, however, an intact specimen was located. It took the efforts of both Wallen and Yoshida to levitate it over the fence. Padma slid a stretcher beneath the Petrified creature, before wrapping it up with a tarp.

The team (now heavy one zombie) Disapparated for Grimmauld Place

* * *

Back in the laboratory, Alec Mercer's eyes widened as he inspected the captured specimen. To say they had acquired a large zombie was putting it mildly.

"I ask for fun size, you guys bring me _Thor_."

Hermione tilted her head to the side, as if the new angle would allow the enormous, flannel clad zombie to fit better into her field of vision, "It's not about size, Alec. It's what you do with it. Were you concerned about it being too big for the machine?"

"I just thought a small specimen would be easier to transport. Technically all that needs to fit in the MRI machine is its head."

Hermione was halfway out the door. She had a mission briefing to plan. "Good, because he was the _only_ member in that group that still had one left."

* * *

Following the successful and lauded capture of the zombie behemoth, the mission briefing for the hospital visit the next day was well-attended.

Twelve research and medical staff, three Ministry clerks, two government agents and one Minister for Magic gathered in the meeting room on the second floor. Ministry clerk, Vincent Spencer, handed out copies of the mission plan and route diagram options. There was about ten minutes of silent reading. Hermione stood in a corner of the room beside the blacked-out windows. She did not need to read the plan, having been the one to design it.

The Minister waited until everyone was looking at him again before he spoke.

"As you can see, we've selected Welwyn Hospital at Devonshire Place. It's a small, day-surgery hospital with two MRI machines and I am told boasts an impressive array of backup generators which are partially fed by solar power. Agent Richards and Hermione Granger have already been to the site this morning to inspect the machines and they assure me that both are still functioning, and more importantly, they are turned on."

"If the hospital still has power, why would it have been a problem if they were switched off?" asked Honoria Cloot.

"You can't simply turn on an MRI machine that has been powered off," Mercer explained. "It's expensive, highly technical and time-consuming."

"Timing is very critical. It's imperative that we complete the scans as expeditiously as possible," Richards. "Every additional minute spent there puts us at risk of being discovered and we will already be moving a damn sight slower on account of lugging our two specimens around."

"One specimen," Hermione corrected, coolly. "One _patient_ and one specimen."

Richards' returning stare was just as cool. "Sure."

"You'll be Apparating to Welwyn in two teams," Scrimgeour continued. "The first team will Apparate to the designated entry point first, to ensure a clear path to the nearest machine. Once a safe route has been established, the rest of the team, who will be carting Mr Weasley and the specimen, will follow."

Here, Scrimgeour addressed Mercer, the only Muggle on the mission. "As you are aware, Apparation can only be undertaken if the Apparator has already been to a destination once before. This, of course, does not apply to side-long Apparation. I am assured that our London regulars, Hermione Granger and Honoria Cloot, are already quite familiar with the hospital, so you'll be travelling side-along."

"Great," said Mercer. "I threw up over Dr Patil's shoes last time."

Padma nodded vigorously. "They were suede. I had to throw them out."

There was a bit of a pause before Scrimgeour resumed the briefing. He seemed slightly hesitant now. "There are two last-minute additions to the team list. Jason Lam, being the only other person with experience in…" Scrimgeour looked to Padma for assistance with the phrase he had only recently been introduced to.

"Medical imaging," she supplied.

"Medical imaging," Scrimgeour repeated, "will therefore assist Dr Mercer with the MRI machine output. Provided there are no objections from Mr Lam? Needless to say, this is a volunteer-only mission, people."

"No objections," said Lam, who was a Muggleborn mediwizadry student and a protégé of Mercer's.

"Dr Mercer, you are certain one person will be sufficient to assist you in your task?"

Mercer nodded. "Jason's as capable as two technicians."

"Good," said Scrimgeour. "Our mediwitches, Honoria Cloot and Mira Khan, will transport Mr Weasley." Scrimgeour then addressed Aisha Malik, a young trauma nurse in a bright yellow headscarf, "I'm sorry Aisha, I know you expressly volunteered, however, wands are a necessity as Mr Wealsey will have to be maintained in a stable state of magical petrification during the course of the mission."

"I understand," said Aisha. Honoria gave her good friend a small, sympathetic smile.

"Mr Lam and Dr Mercer will be responsible for the specimen. Agent Kent, Agent Richards, Hermione Granger and I will be on security detail."

Both Padma and Hermione raised protests at the same time. "Sir, you coming on the mission was not part of the plan," Hermione said.

"With all due respect," Padma added, "I distinctly recall you saying that at least one senior security officer is to remain at this facility at all times. What if we receive word from Tarsansay while you're away?"

Clearly irritated, the Minister turned to the Cowboy, "Agent Richards, it appears you were correct in your estimation of the likely reaction to my inclusion on the team. Translate, would you?"

"You can't come because you're lame. You'll slow us down, at best. Put us all in danger, at worst," said the Cowboy.

Hermione scowled at Richards' bluntness.

Scrimgeour sat down heavily, propping the aforementioned lame left leg out in front of him. "Hermione, this is true?"

"You're needed here," was all she said.

He sighed. "We need a fourth on the security team. In all my years of planning missions, I have _never_ sent out a team of three."

Emily Finch spoke up. "Sir, if I may?"

"No, you may not, Miss Finch, you've done quite enough for us this week. Besides, I have an alternative in mind."

Scrimgeour's eyes met Hermione's. Her look of disbelief told him she knew exactly who he was planning to volunteer. It was clear he had already discussed the candidate with the Agents.

"Malfoy will be your fourth."

The room erupted into protests.

Hermione was incredulous. "The only way Malfoy can break free of his tether is if he kills the person he's tethered to, and that's more likely to happen if he has access to a wand. How is he to be of any use on the mission if he can't defend himself, let alone any of us? I mean, you're not seriously proposing we allow him use of a wand, are you?"

Scrimgeour snorted. "No. Not a wand." A slight nod from him sent Agent Kent to a cabinet, which she unlocked and reached inside. She walked over to Scrimgeour's desk and none too gently placed a large, pump action shotgun upon it.

"We propose that the Subject be allowed use of a Remington 870 instead," she told the assembled group, with the ghost of a smirk directed at Hermione.

Alec Mercer's hand tentatively rose into the air. "Um, yeah...where can _I_ get one of those?"

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

HP story or not, we _gotta_ have at least one shotgun...

Next chapter—field trip! Draco Malfoy in combat fatigues + shotgun! Zombies optional.

A couple of _Avengers_ and _Thor_ references here:

The 'virtually invisible' headsets were homage to the _entirely_ invisible ones used by the Avengers in the final NYC vs. Chitauri battle scenes.

The 'Thor-sized zombie' reference is self-explanatory :)


	7. Greater Good

Still wearing her pajamas, Hermione blew over her mug of tea as she walked to the back of the house and let herself out to the small patch of garden. Mediwitch Mira Khan had tried her best to grow medicinal herbs there, but the ground was more clay than dirt. Hermione had been anticipating spending a quiet minute or two sitting on the back steps, contemplating her worn bedroom slippers and then watching the sun rise.

When she got there, however, she was surprised to see Professor Yoshida standing barefoot in the half-light, wearing pristine robes that were as white as his hair. He had his eyes closed and his lips were moving in what looked like silent prayer. Thinking he probably wished to be alone, Hermione made to retreat back inside the house, but the Professor turned around and gave her a bow.

"Hallo Hermione."

She set her mug down on the step and walked out to greet him. "Good morning, Professor. You're up early."

He smiled the smile of kindly grandads everywhere. "I make this." He held up two, small wooden plaques, on which Hermione could see etchings of horses in gallop, accompanied by beautifully intricate Japanese calligraphy. "I make _ema_ for Harry Potter and for team today," Yoshida explained.

Intellectually, Hermione understood that it was impractical for her to walk around feeling anxious to the point of incapacitation about what had happened (or _was_ happening) to Harry and the Weasleys. Hermione had never been the sort to catastrophize. And good thing, too, else she and the boys would likely not have made it to their fourth year at Hogwarts.

So she was good at putting her fears side until she was alone and able to give in to the panic at the very _idea_ of losing Harry. The consequence of compartmentalising her fears was that when someone else unexpectedly brought it up, it caused the bottom to drop out of her world very briefly and it took small doses of concentrated effort to put herself to rights again. Sometime she failed at this. This was one such time.

A lump settled in her throat as she took one of the little plaques from Yoshida and ran her thumb over the etchings he had carved. "What is _ema_?" she whispered, not trusting her usual speaking voice to not crack.

Yoshida thought for a moment, harnessing his relatively recently command of English. "It is _Shinto_," he said, gently. "I write wish for Harry Potter come home and you and team to come home. Today. All safe. All happy. I make my wish to _kami_, you see?" The Potions Master traced one wrinkled finger across the calligraphy. "Kami is..." he gestured around the garden, pointed at the house and the neighbouring terraces, and looked up at the sky, spreading his arms wide, "all is kami. You. Me. Good. Bad. Grass. Tree. You see?" Professor Yoshida put the _ema_ in her hands and closed her fingers around them.

Hermione did see. This was a magic that was common to Muggles and wizarding folk alike, a magic of talismans infused with the force of hope. If you lived, then you probably wanted, needed and loved. You knew what it was like to have something to lose and therefore a great deal to also _hope_ for.

She hoped with all her might that Harry would come home.

* * *

After Yoshida left, Hermione finished her tea on the back steps as planned. She slipped Yoshida's _ema_ into the pocket of her pajama pants and started up the stairs.

The Cowboy stopped her at the third floor. "Just the lady I wanted to see," Richards said. It wasn't even six in the morning yet and he was already wearing his hat, set down low over his salt and pepper hair. Hermione imagined he probably slept next to it. "I thought I'd take the liberty of briefing the Subject about the mission, today, if that's fine by you?"

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "You're asking _my_ permission? Usually you just go over my head to Scrimgeour." She instantly regretted her words. Did she sound petty? She didn't mean to sound petty.

"You don't like me very much, do you?" Richards asked, looking amused.

The blunt question surprised her, although it shouldn't have. The Cowboy was not one to skirt around sensitive topics.

"I have the utmost respect for what you're trying to do here," she clarified. "I just don't always agree with your methods."

"Scrimgeour trusts me. You should, too."

Hermione bristled. "Likewise, Agent Richards. You don't even seem to trust me to handle Malfoy."

Richards sighed. He folded his arms and stared at her, eyes narrowing. Hermione stared right back, an impatient, questioning expression on her face.

"You haven't been around men very much, have you, kiddo?" he eventually said.

Well, _that_ certainly caught her off guard. How absurd! She'd been surrounded by men—_strong_ men—her whole life.

As if he could read her thoughts, he said, "I don't mean Potter, or the sick kid in the basement that used to make puppy eyes at you, or Scrimgeour, or your old man, or teachers and instructors. I mean real, grown up boys. Nice ones and not so nice ones. And ones that don't treat you like a vestal virgin or co-saviour of the world."

She had no idea where he was going with this. "Agent Richards, if you have a point, please come to it."

"Malfoy's got designs. Scrimgeour and I, we can smell it on him. Master villainy or even just the _potential_ of it, it's got its own special stink, you know? And that man you got locked up downstairs…well it's coming off of him real strong. And that's fine," Richards said, holding up a hand, "understandable even, seeing as he's just working out a way to bust out of jail without paying for it. But the thing is he seems mighty interested in _you_, which makes me worry because you're meant to be his handler I don't reckon you're aware of it."

Hermione hoped she didn't look as thrown as she felt. She chose her words very carefully when she replied. "Malfoy and I have history. Perhaps that's what you're sensing?"

The Cowboy laughed. "Oh, this isn't history, darlin'. This interest is very much rooted in the present."

"Oh, for goodness' sake! Even if any of this is true, what does it matter?"

"Use it," said Richards, simply.

She opened her mouth and then shut it, frowned, and then said, "_Explain_."

"Look, I'm pretty sure Malfoy thinks he's got the jump on you, so you go on and let him think that. You have a chance here to play him right back. Keep it in mind the next time you see him, with your curly hair and big brown eyes and that same Chosen One attitude that Potter has. To someone like Malfoy, who's spent his formative years living in a reptile's nest, you're about as wholesome as American Pie."

Hermione coloured slightly. "I don't...I'm _not_ like that."

Richards gave her a lopsided smirk. "Sure you are, and I'm not asking you to change a thing. I want Malfoy to be _reminded _of the fact he's just about as different from you as it's possible to be. Different is interesting. He _likes _interesting. So you use what you have and let's hope it gets us that formula quicker. Because maybe...and mind you this is a pretty big maybe, if the villain in our little story ain't batshit crazy just yet, sometimes it pays to give him a weakness. Something unexpected to care about besides himself. Internal conflict can be a powerful catalyst for change. You remember that."

"And if you're wrong? If he won't give up the formula?"

Hermione didn't like the look in his eyes when he replied, "Like I said before, we take the kid gloves off. And I step in."

"Listen to me, Richards. No one, not even Draco Malfoy, is going to be tortured for information in this house! Certainly not while I'm here!"

"Is that preferable to people dying out there because one man won't give us the information we need?"

"Not everything can be justified by the greater good!"

And just like that, Hermione realised she had put herself in Harry's shoes. Merlin, this must be how Harry felt most of the time. A good chunk of her indignation evaporated.

"Miss Granger, I would justify a great deal considering that it is humanity's survival we're dealing with," Richards said, utterly serious.

She gave him a canny look. "If what you're saying is accurate, then shouldn't I be handling his mission briefing this morning?"

Richards' response was brief. "How many shotguns have you fired recently?"

"None."

And there was her answer.

* * *

The lower ground of the parking garage was deserted when the security team of four Apparated into the western corner, behind an earmarked Audi R8 that had all its windows smashed in. Hermione, Malfoy and Elizabeh Kent crouched down between the car and a concrete wall while Richards undertook a quick scan of the parking level.

Fortunately, just as it had been the previous day on the scouting visit, the parking lot was empty. Overhead, the main pilot lights were still on, though other lit sections flickered on and off with a dull clinking noise. Otherwise, the city was so very quiet. That had been one of the hardest things to get used to, Hermione thought—the mausoleum-like silence of Infected London after the initial cacophony of sirens, gunfire, helicopters…and screaming.

"Kent and I will secure the MRI clinic," the Cowboy reiterated. "When I give you the word, you bring Malfoy first, and then you go back for the rest of the team."

"Understood," Hermione said. As much as she disliked the Cowboy, he was in his element on field missions and that kind of obvious experience was confidence-inducing. This was why Scrimgeour found him to be such an asset.

Richards addressed Malfoy next. "And I don't need to remind you to play nicely with everyone today, young man."

Malfoy didn't even bother looking up, let alone replying. He was mildly preoccupied inspecting the Kevlar vest he was wearing.

Hermione wanted to throttle him. It was impossible to tell if he was taking any of this seriously. He seemed unconcerned to the point of boredom. Malfoy's inappropriate ambivalence was at complete odds with the rather intimidating figure he cut—dressed in a pair of the Cowboy's black military fatigues, utility belt packed with ammunition and a pair combat boots (which he complained were too small). The single-point slung Remington 870 shotgun was strapped across his chest.

Guns were a foreign and unpleasant concept for Hermione. At least wands had multiple purposes. Guns had a comparatively narrow range of uses; to hurt, or to deter others from hurting.

"You good?" Richards asked her. He looked beadily from Hermione to Malfoy and then back to Hermione again.

She nodded.

"Alright, we'll be in contact very shortly." Richards Disapparated with Kent. As promised, a moment later his voice came through loud and strong over Hermione's headset. "We're in. The room is secure. Bring him."

Hermione took her wand out to Disapparate both her and Malfoy directly into the MRI clinic to join the Agents, but Malfoy chose that moment to speak to her.

"What happens to the tether if you die today?"

The morbid question was startling, but relevant. Not that she'd actually answer him.

"No one is going to die today."

"Ah, but you know what they say about best laid plans," he replied cryptically. He took hold of the shotgun, grimaced down at it briefly, and then began to fill the magazine tube with shells from his utility belt. His gloved hands were surprisingly deft at a task that was still extremely new to him.

Hermione stared, thinking how very surreal it was to watch Draco Malfoy handle a dirty great Muggle gun. "I doubt you'll have need of that today."

"I hope very much that you're right," he replied.

And there was that word again—_hope_. They both shared this particular hope. In a side pocket of her cargo pants, was one of Professor Yoshida's _ema_. It was the one he had made for the team. She reached down to feel it through the thick canvas of her trousers.

Malfoy was giving her an odd look now and Hermione realised she probably seemed worryingly distracted. She blinked, refocussing her attention to the mission at hand.

He held out his hand to her, palm facing outwards, as if he was soliciting permission for a dance. "Shall we?"

Hermione's early morning conversation with Richards was fresh in her mind. She still wasn't entirely sure there was any substance to Richards' claims about Malfoy's interest in her, or indeed, any merit to his argument that Hermione play along with it. She looked at Malfoy and could discern nothing more than mild urgency in his silver-grey eyes. Also, he needed a shave. No one had seen fit to entrust him with a razor in the past week and a half. And yet ironically, here he was now, a team member—holding a loaded shotgun between them and crouched so close to her she could smell the lemon soap she'd given him to use for his baths.

Ignoring his offered hand, Hermione took hold of his wrist instead, and Apparated them inside the clinic, three floors up.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Thanks for your kind reviews! They keep me motivated to write.

The conversation that Richards has with Hermione is actually inspired by one of my other stories-_Eyes of the Forest_-wherein Harry convinced Hermione (as Richards suggests here) to _give_ Malfoy a weakness. The weakness being Hermione, of course. I'd always wanted to explore that idea.


	8. Best Laid Plans

**Author's Notes:**

After seven chapters of mostly people having chats, tea and baths, I now attempt to earn the horror classification for this story. Some of the descriptions are influenced by episodes of the documentary series _'Inside Nature's Giants'_. Especially the one with the exploding dead whale (look it up, it's wonderfully gross). Apologies for typos. It's late and my eyeballs are tired. Reviews are wonderful!

**Warnings:**

Gore, graphic horror, swearing and Red Shirts.

**References:**

_Quiet as a mouse pissing on cotton_ is from Heist (2001). I believe an acceptable substitute is 'ant'.

* * *

Thirty-five minutes after the security detail first arrived at Welwyn Hospital, the entire mission team of eight, plus Ron and the captured zombie, were gathered outside the MRI clinic.

Alec Mercer was already configuring the computers that would process the scans. Inside the MRI suite, Mira Khan prepped the area to receive Ron first, followed by the zombie. As planned, Ron was put into medically induced Petrification. Both Ron and the zombie had been transported on stretchers via _Leviosa,_ though markedly greater care had been taken in moving Ron.

Malfoy was leaning against a wall, one leg bent under him, booted foot leaving a black mark upon the powder blue paintjob. His fingers idly drummed against the stock of his shotgun. Hermione sincerely hoped he had remembered to put the safety on.

She walked over to inspect Ron, who had blankets tucked around him. He was pale and very still, but discernibly breathing. "Did Padma say how long it's safe to keep him like this?" she asked Honoria.

"Three hours," Honoria replied.

"That should be more than enough time provided you take him home as soon as Dr Mercer is done scanning him," Jason Lam said. The medical student produced a pair of scissors and began cutting the zombie's clothing off. It was a hard, disgusting and sticky task.

"Well, that's the plan," Richards confirmed. He turned to Elizabeth Kent and Hermione. "I'll be in the lobby. I want you two ladies positioned at stairwells at either end of this floor. Anything moves, you let me know. Anything tries to come up here, you torch the shit out of it, do you understand? If it makes it out of the stairwell, do not use _Incendio_ or it's going to be like chasing down burning piñatas…"

This image required a moment of quiet contemplation to truly appreciate.

"What's a piñata?" Honoria Cloot whispered.

Hermione explained.

"Oh," Honoria said, wrinkling her nose. "Well that sounds _nothing _like a zombie."

At that point, Jason Lam had succeeded in peeling the zombie's trousers off. The sound of this was nearly as bad as the ensuing stench. The creature's bloated body had apparently escaped the confines of its ripped trousers and had swollen _around and through_ the fabric. Removing the fabric caused small sheets of skin to come off as well.

"Wow. I can smell that from in here," Mira Khan informed them, from inside the scanning room.

Mercer left the observation room to speak to Jason. "Don't forget to check for ferromagnetics. He may have piercings that have been covered up by bloated or injured flesh. While you're waiting for Ron to finish, run a Garrett wand over the big guy, here. Just to be doubly sure."

"Look at this haircut," said Jason, "It looks like he goes to the same barber as Richards. If he's military. I don't think piercings will be a problem."

Hermione was frowning down at the zombie's bloated, suppurating lower torso. "Is that going to be an issue when he's scanned? Apart from making the chamber really sticky?"

Mercer slipped on his glasses and had a closer look. "Nope. His head is perfectly intact. The injuries to his lower half look like high-impact trauma. Judging from the positioning, he was probably hit by a car. See here? His hips are out of alignment."

"I can't even see where his hips could _be_," Hermione muttered.

"The room's ready," Mira Khan said. She was holding her forearm up over her nose to combat the smell. "You can bring Ron in now."

"Alright, people, let's do this," Richards said. "The sooner we're out of here, the better."

Hermione set off for her end of the corridor. She turned her head to see the Cowboy speaking to Malfoy. Richards must have temporarily turned off his link to the communication system, seeing as Hermione could not hear what he was saying. In due course, however, Malfoy raised his eyebrows and then looked up at Hermione, bemused.

He gave her a small smile and a jaunty salute just before she closed the stairwell door behind her.

* * *

As it turned out, Richards had sent Malfoy to the roof.

"Because we need a pair of eyes up there and he doesn't need a wand for that," was all the Cowboy said, when Hermione questioned the decision.

She had _opinions_ regarding this particular idea, but she trusted that Richards knew what he was doing. Over the communication system, Mercer was speaking to Jason Lam, the two men quickly and quietly discussing ROIs and functional overlays and other things that were well beyond even Hermione. In the scanning room, Ron was already in position on the table, his head inside a coil and noise-cancelling headphones on his ears to protect them from the loud drumming inside the scanner.

"Report," Richards barked through their headsets.

"It's as quiet as a mouse pissing on cotton, sir," said Kent.

Hermione reported the same, though with less flair for simile. For a moment, she didn't think Malfoy would make a contribution, but then he said, "I think I can see my house from here."

"You mean the one in Wiltshire? That's some good eyes you got there, Malfoy," Hermione said.

She thought she could hear the smile in his voice. "One of _many_ houses, Granger. I have a townhouse here in London, but I do miss the Manor."

"It's still there," Hermione told him, as she peered down the stairwell and once again noted the thankful bounty of nothing.

"An acquired Ministry asset, I presume?" Malfoy asked. "It's a wonder you haven't taken it apart and sold it off, piece by piece."

"Well there was that whole business about the DMLE team that was sent to catalogue your late father's vast collection of Dark Arts goodies. They went missing for three days and then re-emerged, understandably distraught, in _Jamaica_. After that, the DMLE put the equivalent of Muggle police tape around the place until they could figure out what to do with it."

The communication system relayed his low, soft laughter. "That is gratifying to hear."

"Everyone, we're ready," Mercer interrupted. "Commencing scanning now."

Elizabeth Kent spoke at nearly the same time. "Sir, we have some movement on the west end. I can hear it, but I can't see what it is. Sounds like it's coming from the ground floor, though. Are you picking anything up?"

Through her headset Hermione could hear the sound of a door opening and closing in a cavernous space and thought it could have been Richards going to investigate the lobby stairwell.

"Gotcha," said Richards. He then cast a spell Hermione was unfamiliar with. The effects, however, were all that mattered. There was a brief moment of panicked screeching, a dull thump, and then Richards's voice again. "People, the hospital's deserted, but we may have some free-range visitors wandering the corridors. Keep a sharp lookout and let's dial it down a notch, OK? _No loud noises._"

The remaining forty minutes passed by without incident and Hermione was relieved to hear Mercer's update: "We're done with Ron. Richards, unless you require anything more of her, Honoria's going to Evaporate back to Grimmauld Place with Ron now."

Mira chuckled. Hermione had to smile.

"That's _Disapparate_, Doc. But yeah, Cloot, get that boy home."

"Good luck, everyone," said Honoria, and then she and Ron were gone.

"Alright, bring in the big guy," Mercer called out.

Only, the specimen proved difficult to move. The original levitation spell cast by Dr Wallen and Professor Yoshida was wearing thin, causing the stretcher under the zombie to buckle slightly from the immense weight of the creature. In the waiting area outside the scanning suite, Mira re-cast _Leviosa_ in order to stabilise the load, but then began to have difficulties in pulling away the stretcher as it had adhered to the zombie's exposed flesh. The team listened to several minutes of Mira's laboured breathing before Mercer spoke.

"Jason, I think you'd better give her a hand."

Lam presumably joined the young Mediwitch, but after about ten minutes, he said, "Richards, we're going to need a third person to help Mira move and position the specimen, while I get the scanner ready."

Richards grunted his assent. "Granger, you go. I'll move up to your location."

Hermione opened the heavy stairwell door and then gently shut it behind her. She quickly jogged to the waiting area and assisted Lam and Mira by removing the stretcher first. It took yet more skin off their specimen, but that was of no consequence. Lam then left to go inside the scanning room to ready the table and head coil. Hermione noted that it was indeed difficult manoeuvring the large zombie through the narrow corridor leading to the scanning suite.

"Jason?" Mercer asked. "What's the hold up?"

"Nearly there," Lam called out. He opened the double doors for Hermione and Mira, as they slowly levitated the zombie into the room.

A substantial quantity of fluid was leaking from the creature's torso, creating a slimy, slippery mess along the carpeted floor. Mira trod in a puddle and grimaced. "My trainers," she moaned.

"Hold up." Hermione stopped cold. She was frowning down at the zombie.

"What is it?" Mira asked.

But now even she could see the problem. The zombie was moving, seemingly convulsing in mid-levitation.

Lam was standing by the machine, watching. "I'm coming over."

"Jason, stay where you are," Hermione ordered. "_Petrificus_!"

It didn't work. Petrification wasn't the problem. The zombie lurched upwards, while still remaining mostly horizontal. It began to spasm wildly, its large body fighting the confines of both the levitation and petrification spells. More fluids ran out of the body, dropping to the floor in a viscous yellow cascade. It was like pulling the stopper on a beer keg.

"What's happening?" asked Richards.

The zombie's abdomen distended upwards; the skin stretched to the point where it was tented. There was a hissing noise of escaping internal gasses and then something small ripped out of its stomach and hurtled towards the twelve-ton magnet housed at the opposite end of the room. The thing narrowly avoided embedding itself into Jason Lam's startled face.

_Plink_.

"What the hell…" Jason said, as he approached the item, which was trying desperately to burrow inside the machine.

Mira sagged against Hermione. "Merlin, that was scary…"

"Damn it, Granger! What's going on?" Richards demanded.

"It appears there was something metallic caught inside the specimen. It came out as we entered the scanning room. No one was hurt," Hermione said, with a sigh of relief. She addressed Lam. "Jason, what is it?"

He was peering very closely at the item in question. "I'm not sure. It looks like…some kind of metal loop? Like a broken key ring or something? A pin…"

That meant nothing to Hermione, but Richards was suddenly screaming at them.

"Get out of there! Run! Move! _GRENADE_!"

Hermione grabbed Mira and practically threw her back out into the corridor.

Mercer was shouting. Richards was shouting.

The world exploded.


	9. Safe

**Author's Notes:**

Same warnings as last chapter—gore & horror. But don't let that stop you leaving a review! :)

* * *

There was a thump-thump noise, quick and incessant.

It was obscenely loud and Hermione wished it would go away, until she realised it was the sound of her blood pumping; roaring past her ears. Everything else was muffled as if she had pillows strapped to her head. Her head certainly felt that heavy. She couldn't move, couldn't see, but that was because her eyes were shut.

Well, that was easily remedied. Hermione opened them.

The blast had thrown her an impressive distance away from the scanning room, nearly halfway to the stairwell she'd been stationed at minutes earlier. Portions of the ceiling had caved in over the corridor directly outside the MRI suite. Light panels were blacked out and exposed wires hung down, sparking occasionally. There were voices coming through her headset. She could barely make them out, but that was an improvement to the earlier deafness. One trembling hand rose to touch the wetness at her ears. She didn't need to look at her hand to know that it came away stained with blood.

Mira lay just outside the scanning room. Hermione recognised her blue and red trainers.

"Mira," Hermione wheezed. Her streaming eyes were having trouble focussing now. She squinted, blinking away dust, blood and zombie pulp. Her vision focussed. She choked back a sob as she observed the meter long shard of metal that nearly bisected Mira's head. The Mediwitch lay on her back. Her right hand twitched.

She was alive! There was hope. Yes. Mira Khan was alive and there was hope and she was barely twenty-two years of age and she wanted to apply for a Potions apprenticeship after Medimagic graduation. Her hand was_ moving_ and therefore she would be fine. They would take her home and fix her.

Hermione realised her wand was missing. Panic belatedly descended and other realisations along with it. She looked down at her legs and saw that about ten centimeters of observable steel bolt was embedded in the side of her left thigh. The fabric of her trousers below both knees had been shredded by shrapnel and she was currently lying in an ever increasing, warm pile of her own blood.

_Best laid plans, indeed._

She sat up, whimpering in pain, and then began the task of scrambling around for her wand. It could be anywhere between the doorway to the scanning room and where she lay now. Her sweeping, searching hands were soon liberally coated with her own blood, but sweet relief descended when her fingers came into contact with the familiar, slender length of wood. A short moment was spent contemplating whether or not she should remove the bolt in her leg, but Hermione thought against it. Instead, she rolled onto her stomach, openly sobbing now at how much pain she was in, and began crawling towards Mira. Hermione made it about three meters, leaving a wide, bloody smear behind her, before she started to grow dizzy. She put her cheek down against her forearms and focused on breathing. The urge to vomit was strong.

Someone was speaking—a voice more familiar than all the others that currently jostled for her attention. The voice was tense, but so very calm in the face of what had just happened. That was plain wrong, Hermione thought. How dare anyone be so calm?

_Malfoy_.

His clear, business-like voice penetrated the haze caused by shock, likely concussion and blood-loss. Hermione blinked, listening in rapt attention to every single syllable he enunciated as if they were little life buoys in a sea of terror and panic.

"—two maybe three dozen. You have about forty Infected already inside the building. I'm picking off as many as I can from up here. There is another horde congregating at an intersection in the next block. They may have missed the original explosion, but they're definitely taking notice of my gun fire."

"Don't you dare stop shooting!" Richards roared. "Keep at it! Kent, how many you got on your end?"

"Ten, sir! About five before that. Sir, they're pressing in!"

"Hold them off for as long as you can! I'm going to get Mercer and Lam. We'll have to be quick. Once I leave my post, they'll swarm up the east end of the corridor. Granger and—"

"I'm here," Hermione said, weakly. And with that, it felt like all her senses were suddenly switched back on. The world came back into focus. There was blasting, screaming, gun fire, smoke.

"Well, hell! Good to hear your voice, girl. I've only been yelling it out for the last twenty minutes. Report!"

"Mira's…" Hermione looked at Mira. _Properly_ looked, without hope clouding her assessment. "Mira's dead. I can't see Lam or Mercer."

"Are you injured?"

Hermione suspected she was slowly bleeding to death.

"Some. I have my wand."

"Good! Can you get to the boys? Mercer's fine. I've told him to stay put inside the observation room. Lam says he's pretty badly hurt. Either you or Lam get Mercer and that data out of here, you got it?"

"Yes," she said, "Got it."

Hermione gritted her teeth as she continued to drag herself to the scanning room. In the distance, she could see the tell-tale red aura of _Reducto _fired in rapid succession. Kent was having a time of it defending her allocated stair well.

If the horde broke through, they would all be dead in minutes.

She reached the doorway, which now resembled a charred, smoking maw. There was nothing left of their zombie specimen, but there was plenty of splatter. And smoke. Hermione sucked in a lungful of air to shout, but then broke out into a coughing fit. She tried again.

"Jason! Jason, Can you hear me?"

"Hermione!" Lam called out. "Oh, thank Merlin!"

"I can get to him!" Alec Mercer said. The neuroscientist was in the adjacent observation room, the glass wall between both rooms now shattered. Hermione could just make out the top of his head over the partition wall.

"Alec, no! Stay where you are! I'll get Jason and then we'll come to you, alright?"

She could only see Lam if she got to her knees and that was not a posture she could maintain for longer than a moment. He was pinned beneath part of the scanning table. The trouble was that there was a few tons of MRI machine between her and him, and neither of them were in a state to be climbing over obstacles. She would have to try and move it by magic.

Hermione cast _Leviosa_ and wasn't terribly surprised when the spell failed. The equipment was too heavy and she did not have the strength to fortify the spell. Apparation, perhaps? Hermione hesitated. It was much more costly magic than levitation. The odds of splinching were very high. Perhaps with Lam's assistance…

Lam must have guessed she was considering this. "I tried Disapparating already. I _can't_… Hermione, please help me. Dear Lord, I can see my _insides_…"

"It's OK, Jason! You're going to be fine," she said, trying to sound reassuring. "I'm coming to you, OK? Look, I'm going to try and Apparate over there."

"Granger!" Elizabeth Kent's voice was piercing over Hermione's headset. "They've breached! There are about ten or so, more coming your way. I'm handling what I can, but be ready! They're almost there! Richards, do you copy? Richards!"

The small horde had in fact arrived by the time Kent concluded her warning.

She heard Mercer swear, and then she heard him fire a gun. Richards had obviously provided the neuroscientist with something less cumbersome than a shotgun. And thank goodness for it too, because zombies were currently swarming the observation room.

"Hermione, look out!" Lam yelled, pointing to the doorway. He began firing off spells, some of them whizzing dangerously close over Hermione's head.

There were three zombies, and more still in the corridor. Some of Lam's spells contacted and several heads exploded. Hermione dragged herself behind an overturned table and joined the spell-casting. There was a short reprieve as some of the creatures were attracted by Mercer's much noisier weapon and descended upon the adjacent room.

Alarmingly, Mercer picked that moment to stop shooting. Through her headset, she heard him swearing.

"Oh dear," said Hermione. From her vantage point, she could only make out the taller zombies over the partition wall. Hermione raised her shaking arm, took aim and began firing to assist Mercer. She was soon joined by Mercer, who had re-entered the fray after presumably stopping to re-load his gun.

Lam let out a bloodcurdling scream.

"Jason!"

Because she couldn't actually see him, Hermione had to abandon her hiding spot behind the table to inch around the collapsed MRI machine. She saw a small child—one of the Infected—tearing into the medical student's injured torso. Lam's right arm and chest were pinned beneath machinery. His legs kicked and thrashed in an ineffectual attempt to throw the small zombie off. It dug into him like a rabbit digging a burrow, pulling out viscera and shoving its blood soaked face deeper into the gaping wound to feed.

"Your wand, Jason! Use it!" Hermione screamed. She fired several times around the MRI machine with a wildly shaking hand, and missed. The small creature spun around and hissed before scrambling across the floor towards her. Hermione quickly cast Harry's chainsaw hex and shut her eyes as the small zombie was sliced in half, diagonally, falling into two pieces on either side of her.

Lam was now making small, mewling noises. It looked like he was trying to put some of his insides back together again. He saw his wand lying amidst his spilled intestines and picked it up, looking at it almost quizzically.

More zombies came through the door, some a few months old—slow and sluggish. Others were newly dead and much quicker.

"Granger, I'm nearly there," Richards spoke into her ear. "You keep Mercer alive!"

Hermione propped herself up against the MRI machine and with both hands holding her wand, blasted everything than came through the threshold. She used every suitable spell she knew and a few novel combinations. Some worked better than others. "Alec…" she hissed, hoping Mercer could hear her. She hadn't the strength to shout.

He heard her. "You get the kid out first, you hear me?" Mercer replied.

"You will do no such thing!" Richards interjected. "Is Lam…viable?"

Hermione didn't need to look. She could hear terrible noises the young man was making. "No."

"Then get to the Doc," Richards ordered.

She glanced at Lam and saw that he now had a firm grip on his wand and had closed his eyes. At that point, a small group of zombies rushed the doorway, causing a minor bottleneck before two slipped through and hurled themselves onto the nearest target—Lam. He screamed and tried to blast them off, but he missed at close range.

Hermione began firing at the remaining creatures. One managed to grab her feet and drag her, but she kicked it off with her uninjured leg. "Richards! I think Jason's going to try to Disapparate!"

"No! Lam, if you do that, you'll be taking these sons of bitches back home with you. _Don't do it, son_."

"F-f-ffuck you," Lam's said, in a shuddering voice. The zombies attacking him were wholly focused on consuming what was spilling out of him. Hermione hit one of them with _Petrificus_ just as the air around Lam began to faintly shimmer—the beginnings of imprecise Disapparation.

"He's trying," Hermione said. Tears cut through the blood and grime on her face. "Oh, Jason…"

"Granger, you take him out!" Richards roared. "You take him out _now_!"

"Don't you fucking dare!" Mercer yelled, in between gun shots.

"Granger, God damn it. _DO IT NOW_!"

She wasn't going to survive. Hermione knew this. Richards would have to be the one to get to Mercer and take him home, but Hermione would do what she could to make sure the scientist stayed alive, along with everyone else back at Grimmauld Place. She stopped defending the doorway and turned her wand on Jason Lam.

He looked at her as he was being eaten alive, in agony, terrified.

_Pleading… _

Hermione was sobbing. She could not save him, but she could help him.

"Av…avada Kedavra," she said. And then she repeated the same Unforgiveable three more times. It didn't work.

With a cry of defeat, her arm fell. There was a blur of movement at the doorway and she half-heartedly raised her wand again. But it was no zombie. Draco Malfoy crouched down beside her, grey eyes so very intent and fierce in his pale face.

She was so astounded to see him there that she doubted he was real. Her hand came up, clumsily. Her wand still loosely clutched within it. She brushed her knuckles against his face to check that he wasn't just a figment of her imagination.

Malfoy grasped her wrist, wand and all, and pointed it at Lam.

"Once more, Granger. With feeling."

"_Avada Kedavra_," she whispered and it was like turning on a water faucet to full blast. She could feel the force of Malfoy's magic flowing through her arm, like an injection of electricity. The magic was all his, her arm and her wand merely the conduit. The sensation was remarkable, culminating in a sharp tingling through the tips of her fingers. She stared at him—at his profile now—the scientist in her blinking in wonder.

The spell hit Jason Lam square in the chest. He died instantly.

Hermione slumped over. She watched what ensued through half-lidded eyes. She saw Malfoy stand, and she saw his booted feet walk a short distance from her before the thunderous noise of the shotgun began. Four, five…six shots in succession. He reloaded, emptied and reloaded again before crouching down beside her once more.

He had taken his gloves off. She felt his warm fingers press against the pulse point at her neck. It was then that Hermione realised everything had gone quite dark.

Malfoy put his arm around her and propped her up. "Mercer, can you hear me? I've shot out all the lights. They seem to move slower in the shadows. I figure in the dark they won't be able to find us if they can't see us."

"I hear you, Luthor. Good move."

"We're coming to you. Be still. No more shooting. At last count, I think there are at least eight of them in that room with you."

Malfoy turned his attention back to Hermione. "I know it hurts, but I need you to be very quiet. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded against his shoulder.

"Good girl. Up we go."

Oh God, it hurt like localised _Cruciatus_. Hermione bit on her fist to keep from crying out as he lifted her.

Malfoy carried her easily, resting his slung shotgun against his hip. He walked with great care towards the observation room. It was impossible to avoid all the broken glass on the floor, but thankfully the ventilation system in the hospital provided a not-insubstantial droning hum. Hermione's eyes had by now adjusted to the darkness and it was possible to see the silhouettes of the creatures. As Malfoy had said, they fared less well in the dark, stumbling over each other and moving with less purpose.

There were indeed eight zombies in the observation room, mere meters from where a stricken Mercer was standing. The trouble was that they were standing _in between_ Mercer, and Malfoy and Hermione.

"The data disc," whispered the neuroscientist, pointing, "is in the computer on your right."

Malfoy gingerly walked over to the computer and ejected the disc. The ejecting tray made a minute 'swoosh' sound, which caused every zombie in the room to clamber towards the source of the sound. The creatures' movements provided enough noise to mask Malfoy's footsteps as he quickly backed away to a corner of the room.

However, there was still no clear route to Mercer.

"Granger," Malfoy whispered, "Look up. Can you see Mercer?"

"Yes."

"Good. This is going to be two-point Dissapparation. We're going to get over there, grab him and then leave. Do you think you can do that?"

Hermione was fading and she knew it. She could no longer keep her eyes open. The bottom half of Malfoy's clothing was soaked with her blood. So she placed her wand against his chest. "No. I'll splinch us. _You'll_ have to do it."

There really was no point worrying about him harming the team now. It was either trust him and possibly die, or don't trust him and probably die. And she also held Mercer's life in the balance. Curiously, just as he had been so tentative in leaving his Azkaban cell, Malfoy didn't immediately do anything besides merely hold her wand.

She tried to goad him into action. "Whatever you do, please don't leave Mercer here. He's too valuable."

"I don't know about that," he drawled. "He's a _terrible_ shot."

Hermione smiled. It didn't matter because it was a dark, he couldn't see her face and she was delirious, besides. She remembered what Scrimgeour had said about her being irreplaceable. She didn't agree with him.

"We can't replace him."

"And we can replace _you_?" Malfoy asked.

She sighed. Her hands and feet now felt like they were made of ice. There was no feeling there. Hermione nodded, bumping his chin. "Many more like me. _Soldiers_."

"No. None quite like you, Mudblood," Malfoy murmured into her hairline.

"I trust you," she slurred, patting his chest. "Don't make me regret it."

He was warm, so wonderfully warm. She would very much like to go to sleep now and not have to endure the insanity of having just euthanised a colleague, and then playing murder in the dark with eight zombies, a former terrorist and a neuroscientist with a gun.

Hermione's last coherent thought was that if Malfoy got them home in one piece, the least they could do for him was give him a razor so that he could have a decent shave.

His beard was scratchy.


	10. Suspicion

Hermione opened her eyes.

Above her was the ceiling. Unpainted rendered cement with exposed ventilation ducts and cables, because they weren't intending to win any interior design awards when they erected the subterranean additions to Grimmauld Place. The rhythm of the nearby beeps and the whirs of medical machinery was familiar, as was the sterile antiseptic scent. Hermione flexed her left, and then her right hand, feeling the stiffness of the tape that held a cannula in place on the latter. Her legs were more difficult to move, weighed down by a generous quantity of blankets.

_Oh, good._ Her legs were still…well, _there_.

The measuring and weighing part of her mind that worked studiously in the background even when all hell was breaking loose had registered the possibility that she might lose her legs from the shrapnel wounds.

Shrapnel wounds because of...of…

The information was there, slowly coalescing.

_Because of the explosion caused by the exploding grenade that had been lodged inside the body of the zombie they had been intending to examine via MRI. _

She was back at Grimmauld Place and she was on a hospital bed in one of the basement holding-cells. That much was easy to absorb. The rest was…the rest could wait. She turned her head to the right, where a soft snoring could be heard.

Happiness; bright, sweet and frothy burst within her as she observed a sleeping Harry. He was sitting in a chair with his chin dropped down against his chest. For a moment, she just stared, soaking up the blessed sight of him. Harry, in a fresh, but creased shirt and one of the two pairs of worn jeans he owned. The only thing noticeably different about him was that he'd had a shave. He looked painfully young without the beard. Sometimes, Hermione wondered if he had kept it for that precise reason.

"Harry," she said. No voice came out, just a hoarse whisper, but he awakened with a small jump nonetheless.

He dragged his chair closer to her bed, took his glasses off to rub the sleep from his eyes before putting them back on and peering closely at her. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I could do pirouettes of joy," she told him, beaming. She tried to sit up. Harry tried to push her back down. "When did you get back? What happened?"

"Lie down," he said. "You're meant to be recovering."

"How long have I been out?"

"Almost five days."

"Merlin. That long?"

"Hermione, you nearly _died_. I got back three days ago. Suffice to say the house was in a state."

The happiness evaporated, sucked out by the vacuum of returning memory. The space it made remained, however, filled now by Mira Khan and Jason Lam.

Hermione's eyes screwed shut. A lump took up residence in her throat. Harry seemed to understand. He squeezed her fingers, careful not to jar the cannula.

"It wasn't your fault."

"I know."

"Uhuh," he said, with a half snort. "You knowing it and you _feeling_ it are two different things. I repeat, _it wasn't your fault_."

"What about Richards and Kent? We lost contact with them. And how is Ron?"

"They're all fine. Kent Disapparated back first. The Cowboy actually made it to the MRI suite to find you and Mercer, but Malfoy had got you both out by then."

She practically deflated with relief. "So Mercer and Malfoy made it back in one piece?"

"Well, technically two pieces," Harry confirmed. "Which is a relief considering the risks of Disapparating when one third of your party is unconscious, the other a Muggle, and you're using someone else's wand. Speaking of which…"

Harry reached into his wand holster and pulled out a wand that was nestled next to his—Hermione's wand. He placed it in her left hand. "I believe this belongs to you."

Hermione stared down at it, and then back up at Harry. She didn't know what to say. Neither did Harry, it seems. He inhaled audibly, before speaking. "Few things manage to surprise me anymore. Malfoy actually doing what he did is _very_ surprising."

"You expected him to run." It wasn't a question.

Harry nodded. "Didn't you? Frankly, I've been expecting him to run the moment he got here."

Honestly, she didn't know what she'd expected. In any case, common sense had evidently prevailed. It didn't need to have anything to do with moral epiphanies or atonement or anything so clichéd as that. Perhaps this time Malfoy had simply decided to back the winning horse? The Light held such promise. More so than whatever uncertainties and bad pension plan escape had to offer.

"What happened on Taransay?" Hermione asked Harry. "We sent Owls. All of the missives came back unread."

Harry sat back heavily in his chair. "That is a conversation we need to have with Scrimgeour present. And maybe Mercer, too." He gave her a quelling look when she opened her mouth to protest. "Trust me. They'll help me explain it much better than the way I tried to explain it to them the first time. There's quite a bit to tell. For now, all I really give a damn about is that the Weasleys are safe and you're safe. Oh, and Ginny's here."

That explained the missing beard, then.

"Ginny! I'm dying to see her!" Hermione made to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but she didn't even get that far. The effort required to simply shift the heavy blankets rendered her dizzy. "Oh," she exclaimed, as dark spots begin to obscure her vision. She felt Harry's hands on her shoulders and then she felt nothing at all.

When Hermione regained consciousness for the second time that day, she opened her eyes to find Padma Patil looking down at her; dark, almond-shaped eyes staring reproachfully. Although it seemed she wasn't angry at Hermione, exactly.

"I said _not_ to over-exert her, Harry," Padma admonished.

"Sorry," replied Harry. He was hovering at the door, looking doleful.

Hermione licked her lips. Her mouth tasked like cotton wool. A bendy straw gently prodded at the edge of her mouth, and she gratefully sucked up the cool water Padma offered her.

"Thanks," she said, with a sigh. "Don't blame Harry. It was my own fault. I wanted to see Ginny."

"And Ginny wants to see you," Padma assured, "but seeing as I recently put a couple of litres of blood into you, I'd prefer that you take it easy for a while."

"That bad, was it?"

Padma raised an eyebrow. Without a word, she walked to a chest of metal drawers at the corner of the room and took out a small, zip-locked plastic bag. Inside, Hermione recognised the _Ima_ that Professor Yoshida had given her to take on the Welwyn mission. The pale, yellow wood was now stained a dirty maroon from what Hermione assumed was her blood. Just off the center of the plaque was a hole roughly the size of a bottle cap. Padma reached into one of the pockets of her lab coat and pulled out a disconcertingly large, steel bolt.

"I took the liberty of cleaning this for you," Padma said. She slipped the bolt into the hole in the middle of the _Ima_. It slid through easily, all the way to the head. "Thanks to that little sliver of wood, this monstrosity of a bolt managed to only nick your femoral artery, which is why Malfoy was practically dripping with your blood by the time he got you to my operating table. A few centimetres deeper and…"Padma blinked rapidly, her eyes overly bright. She smiled stiffly at Hermione.

Padma _never_ cried. No one, except obviously her late twin, Parvati, could probably have recalled seeing the formidable former Ravenclaw shed so much as a tear. Padma was as stoic as Parvati had been sentimental. Hermione saved her friend's pride by quickly changing the subject.

"Where is Malfoy?"

"I've put him to work in the labs. It's hilarious. Well, as much as anything can be right now. He's been _inflagrante delicto_ with our electron microscope ever since I informed him we actually have one. Malfoy's quite willing to share, but house-trained or not, no one else has been game enough to be within three meters of him."

From the doorway, Harry snorted. "No need to wonder _why_. Constant vigilance, as Moody used to say."

Hermione had to agree. Even in the small moments when she thought she could actually _read_ Malfoy, there was always something _extra_ behind his eyes that made you slightly anxious. He was like a wolf Hermione had once seen in a BBC documentary. The animal's handler had reared it since it'd been a pup. It played, chased, loved to have its belly scratched and even fetched, but God forbid you tried to take away something it had caught, or was eating. There was a wildness that was a part of the animal that no short-term domestication could weed out. Malfoy was like that—he was their captive wolf. Tame _until _the first conflict with his hosts. Hermione had a good idea what that conflict was going to be about.

They needed those missing pages from his notes.

"Off you go, Harry. I'm going to check Hermione's stitches," Padma said, as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves and began prodding at a cut near Hermione's temple. "I'm sure I saw Ginny helping Honoria in the garden."

"You mean our _clay_ garden?" Hermione added. "Scrimgeour said the only thing we're likely to grow there is an urn."

"Mira never gave up on growing some Wolfsbane for Wallen," Padma said, quietly. "So we'll keep trying."

Harry obediently left. Hermione sat in thoughtful silence as Padma finished applying some of Yoshida's home-brewed healing unguent to the cut before applying a fresh butterfly bandage. She pulled aside the blankets to check the wound at Hermione's thigh, which she declared was coming along nicely.

"Granted I'm awfully good at stitching people back up, but I'm afraid that cut on your forehead will scar. Not badly, but you'll see it in certain light."

Hermione tentatively prodded at the cut, and then instantly felt guilty for bothering. Padma must have caught the look on her face. She tut-tutted. "You're _allowed_ to care, Hermione."

"There are other more pressing things to grieve about than another scar."

Padma shook her head. "It doesn't have to be one thing or the other. You're allowed to acknowledge the general fucked up-ness of the past five days. New scars included."

Hermione was impressed. The other thing Padma never did was swear. "'Fucked up' is an understatement. Did we at least get the data we needed?"

At this, Padma brightened. "Indeed, we did. The mission wasn't all for naught. Mercer's been looking at the data since we got back. It's quite something, he says. We've sent it off to the Cowboy's colleagues for their lab coats in the States to have a look at as well."

"And do we know why our specimen had a sodding grenade lodged in his gut?"

"I have no idea," Padma confessed. "Harry's tried asking the Cowboy, but so far Richards is keeping mum."

It was apparent that Agent Richards was the man holding most of the answers Hermione sought. Perhaps there was another, easier way. "I need to see Scrimgeour," Hermione told Padma.

Padma snorted. "Get in line. You'll have to wait until tomorrow, at least. He's currently not permitted to leave his bed."

"What? What's wrong with him? Is he ill?"

"No, he's RH negative, just like _you_. And on account of being three times our age, he's not bouncing back quite so quickly after donating several pints of blood over the last few days. So for the love of Merlin, lie down, rest and make the most of his generous gift by _getting better_."

It was a most persuasive argument.

* * *

Richards found Harry in the garden. The erstwhile hero of the British wizarding world was smiling beatifically at Ronald Weasley's kid sister—a sassy redhead that Richards had immediately taken a liking to within moments of being introduced to her. She reminded him of his youngest daughter.

Ginny Weasley, assisted by Honoria Cloot, was attempting to stab a trowel into the compacted ground. The ladies had a few packets of seeds to plant and were delusionally optimistic about their prospects.

"Hand me that watering can, would you, Harry?"

Potter did as asked (Richards had no doubt he likely did most things Miss Weasley deigned to ask of him) and the small group of adults observed the water that Ginny poured into the flower trough completely fail to be absorbed by the clay-congested soil.

"Hmm," Ginny said. She was not to be thwarted, though. "Perhaps we could drill a few holes into the ground to let the water drain in?"

Richards had dallied enough. "Potter, walk with me."

Harry Potter would have rather stayed outside in the sunshine with the girlfriend he'd rescued from Taransay, but he recognised Richards' tone.

The two men wiped their feet at the back step before re-entering the house. Richards led Harry up the stairs, pausing along the way to tip his hat in greeting at their virologist, Kate McAlister, before proceeding to Scrimgeour's office.

He presently shut the door behind Harry.

"What's on your mind?" Harry asked.

"This," said Richards. He walked over to the corner of the room that housed a large cabinet, the one where Malfoy's Remington 870 had come from. He pulled out a key attached to a gold chain around his neck, and opened the cabinet door wide enough for a person to step inside.

He proceeded to step inside.

A moment later, a light turned on and a surprised Harry joined him within what appeared to be an ammunitions storage vault. Harry gawked for a minute or two. There was much more than just shotguns. There were an array of semi-automatic pistols and rifles, all manner of body armour, what looked like riot-squad gear, gas masks and canisters of what Harry could only assume was crowd-dispersing gas of some sort.

Richards bent down to slide a large, matte black case from under a shelf. He flipped it open and stood back so Harry could see inside. Harry found himself staring down at rows of hand grenades embedded in custom-fitted foam. There were four rows consisting of five grenades each.

Only…

Harry got down on his haunches to have a closer look.

"The ordnance list I brought with me when I arrived in London indicates that we had twenty separate M67 fragmentation grenades," said the Cowboy.

"One is missing," Harry concluded. He frowned up at Richards. "Why didn't you tell us there was a ruddy arsenal in the house this whole time?"

Richards smiled thinly. "These supplies are here on a need to know and more importantly, a need to _use_ basis."

"But Scrimgeour knew about it?"

"He's the one who insisted I bring it."

Harry's shock registered clearly on his face.

Richards sighed. "I understand that not many of you British wizarding folk like Muggle weapons all that much."

"Understandably," said Harry, with some anger. "Most feel that wands are a more civilised option."

The Cowboy's returning gaze was sharp. "A wand can eviscerate just as well as a hand grenade, but if death and injury is what you want, you can't beat a wand for precision. You throw a grenade, hoping for the best. Or _worst_, in this case. Maybe it knocks a bunch of people off their feet or maybe it takes someone's head off. Who knows? Maybe it does none of that. But when you cast _Laceratus_, for example, and you aim it…just so," Richards sliced his hand across Harry's abdomen, just grazing the younger man's shirt, "you actually _mean_ to cut someone open. No dicking about. So don't say guns are more brutish. They just allow more unknown variables."

Still on his haunches, Harry stared down at the grenade case. "You're suggesting someone stole a grenade from here and put it inside the zombie that exploded on Jason, Mira and Hermione? Do you realise how that sounds? It's insane. It's _sabotage_."

Richard's stare was piercing now. "I'm not suggesting it, son. I'm telling you that's what happened."

Harry got to his feet, an expression of pained disbelief on his face. "No. It can't be someone from this house! Who else has access to this room?" He stared pointedly at the chain around Richards' neck. "Besides _you_."

"Scrimgeour, Agent Kent and myself."

"Fantastic," muttered Harry. "As if the prospect of there being a _second_ schemer and murderer in our midst isn't nauseating enough, I find out our prime suspects are the security personnel who are meant to be protecting us in the first place!"

"I'll widen the pool of suspects for you, if it makes you feel better," Richards said. "One the day of the mission, five people were inside this room at some point—Scrimgeour, Agent Kent, Dr Mercer, Draco Malfoy and me."

Harry's mouth dropped open slightly. "What in Godric Gryffindor's name was Draco Malfoy doing in our ammunitions vault?"

"The consensus among the group was that Malfoy should not be allowed to carry a wand. We gave him a shotgun instead—"

"Because shotguns are l_ess precise_ at causing death," interrupted Harry, dryly.

"—and suited him up in some protective gear," Richards continued. "He was in here with Alec Mercer for all of ten minutes. Supervised by Agent Kent, of course."

"Mercer got a shotgun, too?" Harry asked, looking slightly incredulous.

This seemed to amuse Richards slightly "No, but it wasn't for lack of asking for one. We decided the good doctor was better off with something smaller."

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Does Scrimgeour know about the missing grenade?"

"Not yet. This stays between you and me. The last thing we need now is for word to leak out and suspicion to spread unchecked. We've just lost two people. If morale dips any lower, we'll be in trouble."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I'm just one person, Potter. I need an additional pair of eyes and ears. Especially eyes that aren't busy looking into petri dishes and test tubes. And I need you to keep an eye on Granger."

"Hermione? She can't possibly have anything to do with this! She nearly died on that mission!"

"She may not have anything to do with the sabotage," the Cowboy said, "but she's going to be working very closely with _Malfoy_, isn't she?"

"I still think it was a mistake to bring him here," Harry said, his expression dark.

"You could be right," Richards allowed. "Which brings me to this—you grew up with Malfoy, didn't you? What was he like back then?"

Harry made a sound to convey his contempt. "He was a spoilt bastard and a bigot. Just like his dad."

"Is he really like Malfoy senior, though?" Richards asked. "See, I've looked at his file, and by all accounts, he led a pretty privileged life right up to the point he graduated from Hogwarts."

"So?"

"So when I see him, I don't see a history of wealth and privilege. I see a pragmatist. I see a man playing a long game. I see patience. I don't like it because it doesn't square with what I read in his file."

It looked like Harry was going to provide further Malfoy-specific insults in response, but then he appeared to properly consider what Richards was asking.

"Let's see….four years on the run in godforsaken corners of the world you wouldn't send your worst enemies to, followed by capture and then six years in solitary confinement." Harry shrugged. "I think there's your answer."

"Suffering," Richards postulated. He actually stroked his chin.

Harry nodded. "Nothing like an extended bout of suffering to put things into perspective."

"Hmm. That's what I was afraid of. What sort of perspective are we talking about here? What matters to someone who has had it all, and then lost it all?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, frowning.

"I'm not sure. I'll let you know when I've worked it out."

Richards led Harry to the door. They paused just inside the threshold. "Oh, and Potter, one more thing? If you ever leave this house without clearing it with either Scrimgeour or me, I'll treat you like the deserter you are. And where I come from, we _shoot_ our deserters. All of us have family out there. None of us give in to the luxury of taking off on personal missions when we feel like it. You don't get special treatment just because you managed to take down your local Dark Lord, once upon a time. Do you understand me, son?"

Harry was silent for a moment, his troubled gaze fixed on a spot to the left of the Cowboy's head. "I should have been here to go on that mission to Welwyn…"

"Yeah, you should have. But then maybe you'd be dead like Khan and Lam. For what it's worth, I'm glad you didn't go. We've got a house full of jittery scientists, two exhausted government agents, a supposedly genius ex-con who plays hero when he isn't playing mind games, a Minister for Magic who's currently out of commission…and you."

"And what am I?"

"You, Potter, are a living, breathing reminder of triumph over insurmountable odds. We need that right now."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

There will be D/Hr interaction in the next chapter.

Feedback is much appreciated.


	11. Executive Decisions

**Authors' Notes:**

I loved reading all your conspiracy theories after the last chapter! One of the reviews from an earlier chapter pretty much covered the Taransay attack/MRI-data 'revelation' presented in this chapter—so well done to the reader that picked up on that potential plot detail! This is a longish chapter. As promised, we're about to embark on some extended D/Hr interaction in this and in the next chapter. There's quantity, and I'm sure you guys will let me know if there's quality :)

* * *

"Speak to him," Alec Mercer said to Hermione, after a week of analysing the MRI data set they had risked their lives to collect. "Because now we _know_ that he can hear us."

* * *

So she made a point of going to see Ron every day, sometimes twice a day, for at least half an hour on each occasion. Hermione wasn't the only one. Honoria was often there in the late mornings, telling Ron about Ginny's amazing green thumb and the progress they were making in the garden.

Padma was another frequent visitor, no longer performing her routine check-ups and administering medication in silence. She would tell Ron about her day, complain about Mercer messing up the labs and about Scrimgeour being an unexpectedly cantankerous patient. Harry was becoming concerned that everyone was starting to use Ron as a captive Agony Aunt. Once, Hermione even found Felix Wallen sitting beside Ron's bed, reading aloud some Terry Prachett (bonus points for doing all the different character voices).

As for Hermione, she told Ron of Draco Malfoy's addition to their team and how in a mere fortnight of being introduced to the labs, Malfoy was in the middle of successfully augmenting ReGen. This was their most pressing task at the moment. Without effective, longer-lasting ReGen, even the successful production of D.R.A.C.O would be rendered pointless.

What Hermione _didn't_ tell Ron was that it had taken Malfoy a mere fifty-three hours to create the new test batch of ReGen. Padma had timed him, as a lark. It stopped being amusing after the first twelve hours when Malfoy declined to retire for the night and only left his designated corner of the lab to eat or to attend to calls of nature. By the end of the second day, Padma was concerned he would collapse from exhaustion and would require medical attention that no one in the house could spare him at this point in time.

Malfoy ignored her.

On the third day, Kate McAlister attempted to intervene, complaining that he was monopolising their valuable equipment. He spoke not a word to her, but merely gestured at the computer monitor on which he was analysing a microscopic image display of their reconstructed regeneration serum. Moments later, a wide-eyed McAlister had marched up to Hermione and Padma and said that they needed to: "Leave the man alone to do his work!"

The test batch was synthesised not too long after that, and it was Hermione who had administered it to Ron. There had been no time for testing, as Ron's initial dose of ReGen was on its last legs. His improving condition was the current happy outcome. Yet more work was needed on the serum, but it was no longer a matter of _if_ they were able to perfect it, but _when_.

There was much more to tell Ron.

Hermione explained how Harry and Ginny, with Neville Longbottom's off-site assistance, had taken over management of Taransay Island and the other UK refuges in order to give Scrimgeour additional time to recover from his anemia. In contrast (and to her enormous guilt), Hermione was almost back to her usual fitness, save for a limp that would take a little longer to disappear. There were lots of other things to feel guilty about if one chose to wallow in that particular mire.

Seventeen Muggles and three wizarding citizens had died in the attack on Taransay Island.

And the truly disturbing thing was that it had indeed been an _attack_. It was not an unfortunate accident in which a horde of zombies had somehow stumbled onto a barge, and had been unwittingly taken by the tide to Taransay. Harry didn't want to talk about it, so Ginny spoke for him. She told them of the pyres they had lit to burn the dead, of the smell that lingered for days, followed by a deep, pervading silence. For a while, even the children—previously resilient in the way that innocence and blissfully ignorance allowed—had forgotten how to smile or laugh. What happened at Taransay should _not_ have been possible. People wanted answers and it was the unknown that fed their fears.

"This is why your scan data was so timely," Hermione told Ron, as she sat cross legged in a chair beside his bed. It was very late. She was wearing faded, plaid flannel pajamas, bedroom slippers and one of nurse Aisha Malik's shawls around her shoulders. It was warmer upstairs, but the abundance of concrete in the basement tended to trap the cold. Aisha sheepishly admitted to knitting when she was anxious. And given that nearly everyone in the house had been gifted with a beanie or a light scarf by this stage (Professor Yoshida had politely requested a tea-cosy), Hermione had to conclude that Aisha Malik existed in a permanent state of anxiety.

"We've discovered that the Infection affects magical people differently. Analysis of blood alone could never tell us this. We had to look inside. Inside _your_ head," Hermione explained to Ron, touching two fingers to his temple. "It appears that witches and wizards don't become zombies in the traditional sense of the word. Mercer speculates that they're able to retain more cognitive functions. They can reason, to a certain extent. Which basically means they can remember, plot, plan." Hermione drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them. "Cooperate."

It was a major discovery. And in hindsight, explained the apparent unpredictability of certain encounters with the Infected, not to mention Hermione's recent observations of the comings and goings of the zombie in the red hoodie. The finding had been relayed to the other Infected countries and was received with great scepticism at first, followed by a new wave of distrust and blame-mongering directed at magical folk.

No one was overly surprised by this.

When there was nothing else to be said, when she had smoothed down bed coverings that Honoria Cloot had already meticulously seen to, and when she had given Ron's hand a quick, final squeeze, Hermione bid him goodnight and shut the cell door behind her. It was the start of a full moon again, which meant that their resident werewolf occupied the second cell.

This time, Dr Felix Wallen was awake. It was impossible not to be affected by the sight of two-hundred kilos of bona fide monster, even if the eyes that watched her still recognisably belonged to their mild-mannered microbiologist. His gaze was blue and baleful as she stopped to say hello. He quit his bipedal pacing, dropped to four legs and retreated backwards into the shadows of his cell, until all she could see was a silhouette that was the stuff of childhood nightmares. There seemed to be a lot of that going around…

Hermione took the hint and continued towards the stairs. She headed for the labs.

* * *

A light was still on.

According to Harry, who hovered over the labs in the daytime like an over-protective mother hen, Malfoy had finally managed some sleep (four hours), a shower and a shave, and then had picked up right where he left off. Harry had impressive stamina, but not even Harry was capable of remaining awake for days on end. He'd been relieved of the late-night 'Malfoy-sitting' shift by the Debutant.

Agent Elizabeth Kent was at Padma's desk, her long legs propped up on the work surface. She sat in a chair, swiveling slightly from side to side. Across the room was Malfoy, working with his back to Kent.

"You should be asleep. You're rostered to manage the next lab shift in six hours," said the Debutant, without preamble. Kent managed to avoid referring to Hermione by her name. Hermione couldn't tell if it was a concerted effort or just part of the Agent's abrasive communication style.

"I know when I'm rostered. I made the roster," Hermione replied. "Right now, I'd like a word with our houseguest."

It was some progress, Hermione supposed, that they had stopped referring to Malfoy as 'The Subject' following his assistance on the Welwyn Hospital mission. 'Houseguest' was the new euphemism of choice. Also, Kent really should not have her feet up on Padma's desk like that, where they were samples and equipment and notes, all meticulously organised.

Kent must have caught Hermione's look of disapproval, because she removed her feet. "Be my guest, although I think you'll find he's about as talkative as furniture."

"Clearly you've never been to Hogwarts," Hermione muttered. "And thank you, I'll take it from here."

The Debutant narrowed her eyes. She may have also given Hermione's pajamas the once-over. "You want me to wait outside." It was a statement.

Hermione's answering smile was tight. "Please."

The space of a few breaths passed. Kent shrugged. "Fine. Yell if you need me."

"Thank you, I'm sure that won't be necessary."

Kent left, but she didn't go far. Hermione could see her standing just outside the lab's frosted glass double-doors, and it galled Hermione to admit that she was slightly glad for her presence. She'd seen Kent at work and was aware that Richards himself had trained her. As much as Hermione did not like the woman, Grimmauld Place needed both Kent and the Cowboy.

Hermione walked over to Malfoy's designated work station. It was—Hermione noted with some amusement—the antithesis of Alec Mercer's workstation, which was jam-packed full of junk food wrappers and empty cans of soft drink. The state of it drove Padma up the wall.

Malfoy's blatant eschewing of the standard white lab coat was another thing that annoyed Padma. Her talk of contamination, cleanliness and the reassuring comforts of uniformity fell on deaf ears. Malfoy was not there to make anyone comfortable. He did what he wanted, within the narrow parameters they had set for him. That evening, he was dressed in the same black, military BDU trousers and one of Harry's seldom-worn shirts—a slate grey, cotton, button-down affair that was more formal than Harry desired or required. Malfoy had rolled the cuffs and sleeves up, lest they get in the way.

He did not acknowledge her presence, so she cleared her throat and said his name.

Upon hearing her voice, he looked up from his sitting position, seeing her but not _seeing_ her. He was all dark blond stubble, shadows, angles and pallor. His face bore the mark of intense, all-consuming concentration. Hermione noted the slight frustration and a thrall that was its most acute when the solution to a conundrum was just within reach…should one choose to add yet another metaphorical piece of _Jenga_ to a swaying tower of theory and questions.

Malfoy's mind was very much elsewhere.

And ironically, even as Hermione recognised her capacity to be _exactly like this_ at times, in that moment, she did not know him. There was no history between her and _this_ particular, here-and-now version of Draco Malfoy; this man who had managed to eke out Muggle medical research expertise while on the run from the British wizarding authorities. And to her growing concern, Hermione realised that applying any absence of history to Malfoy meant that while his motivations were sill suspect, Malfoy himself was not inherently detestable or loathsome or evil. Add to this his surprising actions at Welwyn, and he was unfamiliar to her.

Hermione Granger did not fancy being unfamiliar with concepts or things that intrigued her.

This was her innate nature. If she deemed it worth knowing, then by golly, she would set out to _know_ it. She had briefly pondered telling Harry about these unsettling thoughts, but simply imagining the look of horror on his face was enough to dissuade her. Harry would not understand about curiosities that burned a hole through your mind.

And the further irony was that Malfoy would probably understand. Hermione recalled what the Cowboy had said to her just before Welwyn,_"Different is interesting. He likes interesting."_

In the first few days when a still-healing Hermione had hobbled into the lab to take her position at her desk, her contact with Malfoy had been minimal. Nevertheless, she had felt his gaze on her as she limped around on crutches, felt it settle on her leg or at the cut on her forehead, taking stock of the injuries that had (according to Padma's account) soaked him in Hermione's blood, right to the skin.

Apart from a belated team debriefing by Richards, neither Hermione nor Malfoy had once mentioned what had occurred at the hospital. Richards' theory was that 'Thor', their erstwhile zombie specimen, had been ex-military, and had carried a hand grenade on his person when he had sustained an impact from a motor vehicle, thereby _embedding_ the grenade inside him.

"_Get out_," Emily Finch had aptly commented.

Talk about the wrong zombie in the wrong place at the _worst_ possible time...

Malfoy was speaking to her now. "What?" he asked, distractedly.

It was a response born purely of impatience, nothing more. He wasn't using his Mudblood-baiting voice. He could have been responding to Kate McAlister or Alec Mercer.

"How much longer before you're done with this?"

He massaged the bridge of his nose as he responded. "About a day or two. I'm not as productive as I was at the start of the week."

Yes, well. Exhaustion tended to do that. "You're going to drop if you don't take a break," she told him. They needed him working at a constant, manageable pace. There was nothing manageable about burning out at the end of every week.

And it was then that he folded away the thoughts that preoccupied his mind. She could see it, could see the owlish, neutral stare gradually replaced with the narrow-eyed, canny look that was the Malfoy she had more experience with—the one that called her 'Mudblood' and smiled his game show host smile.

He looked at her until the silence became uncomfortable. Well, _more_ uncomfortable than everything already tended to be around him. And seriously, would everyone please stop eye-balling her god damned pajamas? They were in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, not London Fashion Week.

"What?" she said, in a tone much sharper than the one he'd used on her.

A ghost of a smile flittered across his face. "You're right. The current batch of serum seems to be working for now. Weasley will keep for a few days longer." He glanced across the room at the spot where Kent had been sitting. "The Debutant's on a break?"

"I asked her to wait outside."

"Why?"

Hermione pulled out a chair and straddled it. Her injured, upper thigh twinged. "Because like last time, I think you're liable to bargain with me without an audience around."

The corner of his mouth lifted. He turned back to his workstation for a moment, saved the work that was currently on screen, before returning his attention to Hermione. "And pray tell what are we to bargain over?"

"I want those missing pages, and as we've already discussed, you will receive an official pardon once you hand over the lot."

"I believe the deal was, and I quote, _if you help us, the Ministry will rescind your life sentence_."

"Yes."

"There is a chance that D.R.A.C.O will not work. What then, Mudblood? Do I still receive my pardon?"

"Of course! If you honestly helped and it didn't work—"

"Honestly helped?" he scoffed and then gave her a slightly withering look. "And who decides how 'honest' my assistance has been, hmm?"

"We all do! Me, the team, Scrimgeour..."

"And I believe _you_. However, you do not hold the majority vote here, do you?"

That was it then, she realised, and could have kicked herself for not understanding Malfoy's concerns sooner. He did not trust Scrimgeour's tacit approval of the pardon. But Scrimgeour had already given his consent!

Ah, but he'd been forced into it, hadn't he? Harry and Hermione had not sought prior approval before bringing Malfoy into their operation. It had been worth it, clearly, but Scrimgeour's mercy was apparently not perceived by Malfoy to be a sure thing.

Hermione cared for Rufus Scrimgeour very dearly. She knew Harry felt the same way. But like the Cowboy, the Minister for Magic did have hidden reservoirs of unflinching ruthlessness. You had to, to make the kinds of decisions he did.

Malfoy seemed to read her mind.

"Richards would beat the formula out of me if given the chance. I suspect he's offered that to you as a suggestion. And I also suspect you've declined."

Hermione was silent.

"Not so much on _my_ behalf, I'm sure." He was watching her very carefully, almost scrying her face. "Rather, I think you couldn't stomach the thought of being responsible for anyone's torture."

"You really don't believe you'll be pardoned outright?" she asked, returning to their original topic.

"No, Mudblood. Not for what I've done. Not for all the contracts the Minister signs before me. And certainly not for a formula that may not work."

"But we won't know if it doesn't work! How are we to know if we don't at least try?"

"_I'll_ know if it works if I _guarantee_ that it does. With Richards' help, you may be successful in bleeding the original formula out of me, but you'll be hard pressed using that same 'technique' to get me to continue working on it." He read her expression easily enough. "Do you see now?" he asked, almost gently.

"Yes," she whispered. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the vertigo of epiphany. She did see, and she also saw how painfully naïve she'd been about the motivations of the people at the center of this game. "It's going to be a staged release of your formula. And you're going to make sure it works first. That's why you're nearly killing yourself perfecting ReGen now, because D.R.A.C.O won't take without it," she surmised.

He didn't reply; didn't need to. He took a blank piece of paper and a pen from the table and then spent a minute writing on it. When he was done, he handed it to Hermione. Her eyes quickly scanned his neat, slanted handwriting. Of course, she would need Kate McAlister to confirm without a doubt what was written on the paper, but Hermione knew enough to understand what it contained. It was another missing page of the D.R.A.C.O formula, following on from the first page he had already given them in exchange for his first bath.

Hermione blinked at him. "Thank you."

"I don't require your thanks," he said. "This is a bargain, not a token of my goodwill. It will be the start of many more bargains to come. You get that page and another, tonight. After I get what _I_ want."

"And what do you want?" she asked.

He appeared to be thinking.

* * *

Elizabeth Kent looked at her as of she'd lost her mind. Hermione couldn't blame her.

"No! Absolutely not! You're stark, raving mad to even consider it! You do realise there's nothing to stop him from killing you, severing the tether and escaping?"

Hermione had expected this. She pulled up her sleeve. "You're right. I can't possibly take him for this little jaunt if I'm the one he's tethered to. So here—" She unknotted the golden skein that appeared at her own wrist and took hold of Kent's.

Malfoy leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching the exchange with interest.

"What are you doing?" Kent demanded.

"If he pushes me off a cliff or something, the tether will remain unbroken because _you_ can still track him, yes?"

What could Kent say? No? She _wouldn't_ say no because the alternative would be to allow their precious prisoner the means of permanent escape. Malfoy could kill Hermione and abscond, but it would only be temporary so long as the tether was intact. They would always find him, no matter where he went. And when they did, it was a surety that whatever tentative mercy Scrimgeour had once extended would be ancient history.

Kent scowled as Hermione tied the tether off. "This is a mistake," she hissed. "You're being reckless with what doesn't belong to you."

"The _formula_ doesn't bloody belong to us. I'm working on changing that. If anyone else has any better ideas that won't do more harm than good, let me know." Hermione shoved the single page Malfoy had given her, into Kent's hands. "Give that to Dr McAlister in the morning. She already has the first page. There'll be another upon my return."

"I'm going to have to report this."

"I expect you to, Agent Kent."

Hermione had already taken Malfoy by the elbow and was leading him up the stairs, towards the kitchen. They would have to quickly grab whatever they could carry, before Kent ran tattling to Scrimgeour or Richards.

She selected two apples—both green, some hard cheese, sliced bread and two bottles of ginger ale. She threw the lot into a canvas bag hanging in the pantry and then stood in the middle of the kitchen.

"Ready?"

She held out her hand to Malfoy, expecting him to offer her his wrist, as was all side-along Apparation protocol required. He stared at her with a bemused expression, and it might have been her imagination, but she thought he looked just a tad impressed.

And tall, Merlin, he _towered_ over her. Shoving her off a cliff, should he choose to do so, would present no problems to him whatsoever.

He didn't offer his wrist, but took her hand instead; his grip strong, warm and dry. That threw her off a little, but not enough to distract her from Apparating them right into the middle of Hogwarts' Quidditch pitch.

She honestly wished she was dressed in something other than her ratty old pajamas and bedroom slippers.

* * *

**Additional Author's Notes:**

You guys are lucky I didn't spend half this chapter describing Felix Wallen in lycanthropic form. There is only one thing I like more than zombies, and that's _werewolves_. The next chapter is 50% written and so far is exclusively D/Hr. Thank you for your ongoing input. Feedback keeps me going!


	12. The Necessary Things

**Author's Notes:**

Loooong D/Hr chapter :) As promised.

I thought I'd 'created' _Scribbulus_ on the spot, but a quick google search reveals that it's used in a few other places, but most prominently by _The Leaky Cauldron_, as their essay and opinion piece repository. The section about the illusion of free will is inspired by the work of neuroscientist and author, Sam Harris.

* * *

He said he wanted a bit of time on a broom. Hermione had deemed that do-able.

He'd then added that he wanted a bit of time on a broom _at Hogwarts' Quidditch pitch_.

She'd mulled it over for a short while before decided that yes, that was do-able, too (provided she got Agent Kent to take over as Malfoy's tether-mate for the duration of the trip). Even though Malfoy was speaking to her in full sentences, with his inbuilt cryptic-o-matic turned off, and he hadn't tried to strangle her once in the last three weeks, he was _still_ a convicted killer.

Hermione was not a fool. She knew that her life was at risk every time she was alone with him. Ah, but the risk was small enough that it did not outweigh the benefits if he continued to hand over additional pages of D.R.A.C.O. At this rate, this would have it all in a matter of a few, short weeks.

Malfoy was no fool, either. His endgame made a lot of sense, if you happened to be Draco Malfoy. To everyone else, he was selfish and sadistic. But then it wasn't like anyone was expecting him to transform into Mother Teresa overnight. He would give only so long as they gave back, and by all accounts, what he was asking of them was relatively minor, so far.

The big ask was trust, however.

Hermione did not trust him, but she trusted her instincts and those instincts were telling her that the endgame was a while off yet, and that murder and mayhem was not on the cards currently.

They Apparated into the middle of a humid Scottish summer. The pitch was predictably deserted. Months of neglect meant that the grass reached Hermione's knees. She noticed that Malfoy was no longer at her side. He was cutting through the grass, heading purposefully towards the edge of the pitch.

Hermione rubbed her upper arms to rid herself of goosebumps. Despite the school's legendary external wards now rendered defunct, it seemed immensely wrong to Apparate so casually into Hogwarts grounds. The castle itself was a different matter, of course. The wards around the stones were ancient and unlike the school grounds, did not require manual maintenance. They were a permanent feature and as such, it was still impossible to Apparate directly inside the castle.

It was so very silent on the pitch. The air was unmoving. There were no nightbird calls and no droning insects venturing from the muddy banks of the lake. It felt like they were inside some kind of hermetically sealed history lesson. The house flags and banners that adorned the Quidditch stands lay dark and limp. A full moon provided light, though just barely. Hermione's memory of Hogwarts was undoubtedly embellished. She recalled the grass being so vibrant that it hurt to stare at it in the full sun, while the Slytherin green was a couple of shades darker. She remembered the scarlet and deep gold of the Gryffindor colours on flags that flapped in the breeze so energetically that they made a noise. The pitch was never meant to be seen like this, bleached of colour as it was. Everything was in monochrome.

Malfoy's borrowed combat boots crunched over the sand and gravel that bordered the pitch.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked. She didn't have to shout. The silence meant her voice carried without any effort.

He replied without turning around. "To find a ride."

* * *

Hermione had no idea that the Slytherin team maintained their own separate set of practice brooms housed in a locker in the school's broom shed. The most recent team's brooms were still there.

She was unsurprised. While every other Quidditch player made do with a cantankerous school broom in the event their own stick was in the shop, Slytherin House made up its own rules. That had been part of Hogwarts' dubious charms—the small, inherent inconsistencies. Looking at it through less idealistic eyes, Hermione wondered why some of the other Houses never kicked up more of a fuss about these injustices. Hufflepuff, for instance. House Hufflepuff often found itself at the dodgy end of last minute points or rule changes, often to the benefit of Gryffindor or Slytherin. They seldom complained, and you began to understand that that, too, was part of the system of assigned character.

And if one subscribed to the notion that free will was actually an illusion, then it became easier to see why Malfoy had become who he was, and not…and not any of the myriad_ other_ things he could have been.

Like a gifted scientist, for example.

Malfoy's departure from the UK had certainly been 'off-script'. Perhaps he'd glimpsed previously impossible options? Maybe that accounted for why he had seemingly rid himself of the petulance and resentment of his youth? The Machiavellian instinct that made him Harry's Hogwarts nemesis was still there, though. Perhaps that would always be authentically _him_?

Hermione climbed to the top of the Ravenclaw stands, because they were the nearest. It was a long and sweaty climb to the top, and she was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration by the time she settled into the front row of benches. Padma had recommended exercising her injured leg to prevent muscle atrophy, and so far there hadn't been many opportunities for a workout at Grimmauld Place. The short curls at her hairline stuck to her damp skin. Hermione pushed her hair back, gathering the thick mass into a tighter ponytail. She took one of the bottles of ginger ale from the canvas bag and unscrewed it. The ale was perfect for the weather—dry, crisp and still very cold.

She ate her apple as she watched Malfoy fly, for there was nothing else to do and the sight of the empty castle in the immediate background made her feel all sorts of melancholy.

It was truly odd to note that she remembered his flying style, so to speak. This knowledge had been borne from the many Slytherin versus Gryffindor matches he had played in, whereby it would only be just a matter of time (and opportunity) before he executed a foul against a member of the Gryffindor side—usually Harry. After six years of watching for _that_ with a keen eye, it was no wonder she remembered that Malfoy flew like he was riding his favourite horse. He didn't crouch over the broom, like Harry, who kept his ankles tucked up tight like a jockey on a tall racehorse. Nor did he observably 'hang' from it, which was Ron's particular, dangling style of broom-sitting.

No. Malfoy sat with his back straight; heels fixed at a forty-five degree angle, as if they were placed in invisible stirrups. His left hand held the broom neck, directing the stick with motions that were largely indiscernible, while his other hand rested on his thigh. When Harry came about, he grasped the broom with both hands and the tip of the broom would dip south and then level up again. When Malfoy did this, he did it one-handed, pulling the tip of the broom nearly up to his nose, such that he and the broom were nearly vertical in the air. Harry had pointed out once or twice that it was a difficult maneuver to master at full speed, but if you could manage it without throwing yourself off your broom, it meant you made less of a target as you turned. Most collisions and Bludger Kisses (as Ron euphemistically called them) happened when players turned their brooms around.

After about twenty minutes in the air, Malfoy dismounted. He stepped onto the levelled top of the safety barrier, before jumping down to join her at the benches. His legs were long enough that he was able to brace his feet against the barrier wall. Wordlessly, she passed across the canvas bag. He took it, pulled out the ginger ale and drained half the bottle in one long, continuous swallow. They sat—in the opposite of companionable silence—watching the few sparse clouds pass across the moon. Hermione was so tense that it was nearly anticlimactic when he eventually did speak to her.

"How did it start?"

She knew what he was talking about, of course. "No one knows for sure. But they traced the source of the Infection to London. Patient zero, whoever they were, lived and died here."

He leaned back, resting his elbows on the raised, second row of benches behind him. "When he or she made it to a hospital, the treating doctors would have diagnosed it as encephalitis. Probably thought it was meningitis."

Hermione nodded. "Probably."

"And then when more cases presented, they would have been motivated enough to conduct PCR on brain samples post mortem," he speculated.

"PCR?"

"Polymerase chain reaction," he explained. "It's a technique used to detect the presence of infectious diseases."

She _had_ to ask. "What on earth prompted your interest in virology?"

He angled himself slightly to the right, such that he was now facing her. It was too dark to make out the expression on his face. "I'm not interested in virology."

"Then...?"

"Then why did I spend several character-building years in Russia learning about it?"

Hermione nodded.

Malfoy took a swig from his ginger ale, watching her over the base of the bottle. "I told you."

She brought forth the memory in question, from the day they had released him from Azkaban.

_I spotted a lucrative, untapped market._

"For the money," she concluded.

He held the bottle up at her in mocking congratulations. She waited for the inevitable elaboration. It wasn't a long wait.

"Muggles fear mortality in ways we do not."

She made a derisive sound. "We're hardly immortal."

"The average life expectancy of a Western European wizard is a hundred and twenty. In Japan, it's two-hundred and five. How old does Professor Yoshida look to you?"

"I'd say about eighty-five?"

He smiled, took a sip and then licked his lips. They glistened briefly in the low light. "Try two-hundred. He's been brewing potions since my great-grandfather was in swaddling clothes. Compare that kind of longevity to the average Muggle life expectancy and to Muggles, it's no trifling matter."

"What about Voldemort? Did he approve of your little side-projects?"

At mention of Voldemort, the air between them cooled significantly. Malfoy's smile was still there, but now it was only for show. "Let's just say that what the Dark Lord did not know, ought not to have bothered the Dark Lord."

"Ah, but he _did_ find out, and it _did_ bother him. He betrayed you to the authorities before Harry killed him. That's how you were eventually caught."

He took another swig from the ginger ale. "I took a risk. It seemed worth it at the time. I expect you understand all about risks worth the price of entry, seeing as you're spending the small hours of the morning with a man who could hurt you in a hundred different ways before the sun rises."

She felt a stab of anxiety in her belly, but tried for nonplussed. "If I thought you were going to kill me, I wouldn't be here."

"But killing is not hurting, is it?"

"I have a wand."

"And a good thing too. We're going to need it."

She tensed when he took the bag, located the other green apple and began to demolish it in quick bites. He never did anything tentatively; they were mostly concerted, precise actions.

"So what's your story, then?" he asked, gesturing at her with his apple. "Why are you here?"

"Here with you?"

He used a smile she had never seen before. This one was sleet-melting. "No, _kiska_. I know why you're here with me. What I don't know is why you're helping your team."

"I'm helping them because they _need_ help. And was that Russian? How fluent are you? We may need to trade supplies with a convoy soon."

"You know what I think? I think you're helping this team because of your misguided need to assist Potter. I don't think you'd even know what it's like to have a project all your own," he said. "And my Russian happens to be as fluent as my French."

She knew he was purposely goading her about being Harry's perpetual sidekick. It was an old insult. "Actually, ReGen is my own undertaking. I was working on it before the outbreak, which is why it was available to use."

It was apparent Malfoy had not been aware of this fact, and now looked genuinely impressed. "ReGen is a bloody work of art, I hope you realise that."

She shrugged. "The original formula wasn't effective after a while, as you saw with Ron."

Malfoy shook his head. "Honestly, Granger. I don't know if it's a lack of imagination that's your problem, but there are about a dozen commercial applications for something like ReGen."

"Right now, the only application I'm interested in is whether it can combine successfully with D.R.A.C.O."

He tossed his apple core over the railing, drained the remains of his ginger ale and left the empty bottle on top of the safety barrier. "How amusing to think _our_ respective inventions may actually have the capacity to save the world." He picked up his broom and stood. "Let's go."

"Where are we going?" she asked, reaching for the bag.

"The library. It was good to be back on a broom after these many years, but we're here for business, not pleasure."

* * *

The darkness inside Hogwarts Castle was the sort that had weight to it. It settled around Hermione and around the two square meters of light created by her _Lumos_. She stood in the middle of this circle of light, using her memory of the castle to find her way around. The perimeter of the light orb didn't taper off into the darkness, it was _sucked_ into it. So despite being inside Hogwarts and traversing its corridors and staircases, all Hermione got to see of her beloved, old school was minute portions of illuminated space.

Malfoy hovered at the orb's perimeter, sometimes walking out ahead into the thick blackness. He'd stop for her to catch up and she nearly ended up walking into him once or twice.

"This was perhaps not the best idea you've had," she commented.

"I've had far worse. I'm pretty sure seventh year was more or less twelve months of Bad Idea."

Hermione paused for a moment to get her bearings. They had to be at the third floor corridor by now. She couldn't see him, but she could hear his footsteps if she kept the noise of her own footfalls to a minimum. "We've overshot the stairs to the library."

He stopped walking. There was a brief pause, followed by, "I think you're right. We should backtrack."

A moment later, he entered the confines of her _Lumos_. When he spoke, his breath stirred the hair at her forehead. She could smell green apples. His light hair and eyes rendered him colourless and ghostly in the golden glare of the spell.

Hermione took a step backwards to put some distance between them. There was something on the ground, however. Her left heel caught against it and she would have fallen over backwards if Malfoy didn't catch her about the waist. He swung her back up, and as her wand arm dipped low, it revealed the desiccated remains that had tripped her. The shock was pronounced enough that she momentarily forgot it was Malfoy's shirt and arm she was clutching.

It wasn't so much what it was, but _who_ it was.

"Is that…is it…?"

Malfoy gently extricated himself from her white-knuckled grip and dropped to his haunches for a better look.

"Light," he requested.

She aimed her wand at the ground.

It was Hogwarts' caretaker, Argus Filch. Or what was left of him. Of Mrs Norris, there was no sign. With any luck, she'd run off into the forest when the Infection reached the school. Hermione had seen her fair share of half-eaten remains, but this was different. She joined Malfoy for a close-up examination of the corpse.

"Look at this," she whispered, pointing to the spot where the top of Filch's head ought to have been. His brain was gone, scooped out. "That's a clean cut. This was no feeding frenzy. Something cut his head open like the top of a boiled egg and took out exactly what they wanted."

Malfoy grabbed her wrist and guided the wandlight lower down the corpse's torso. His hold was light, but Hermione's entire body recoiled. If he noticed, he was too preoccupied to comment. He released her hand and then turned the stiff corpse onto its side.

"Keep the light right there."

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Having a good, old-fashioned rummage…"

He frowned in concentration as he palpated the corpse's abdomen. It looked intact, which was odd as viscera was usually a zombie crowd-pleaser, but she soon reassessed this assumption when she watched his hand disappear inside. There was definitely a wound.

"You really should be using gloves for that."

"It's alright. He's mostly dry. And—ah yes, it appears he's also missing his _liver_." Malfoy took his hand out and proceeded to wipe it on the remains of Filch's clothing.

"Hmm," said Hermione. "So they took his liver and his brain. And left everything else?"

"They _ate_ his liver and brain," Malfoy emphasised.

Hermione was perplexed for only a minute, before she joined Malfoy at his apparent conclusion. "Wizarding zombies must have done this, and they were damn near surgically precise. They picked the bits they fancied best."

"The brain is standard zombie nosh. But as you know, the liver is full of nutrients—iron, potassium, zinc, Vitamins A, D and C, masses of thiamine and riboflavin. Things you won't find in similar quantities anywhere else," he said.

"All the things required for cognitive functioning," she surmised. "You're saying the human liver is like the smart zombie's salt lick, or something?"

Malfoy nodded. "Raise this with Mercer. See what he says."

Hermione stood. Suddenly the darkness that surrounded them was about ten times as ominous. "Um, I'd feel a lot better if we hurried this up."

"I concur."

They proceeded to the library at a much quicker pace.

* * *

Their destination was the Herbology wing of the library, which occupied a sloping alcove on the fourth floor, west of the Restricted Section. Some of the more valuable reference books were missing and several more littered the floor. Hermione suspected the teachers had taken what they could with them when the Hogwarts evacuation had occurred. The shelves gradually diminished in height as they ventured deeper inside the alcove. Malfoy peered at several titles, eventually pulling out a book. He flipped it open and grimaced at the cloud of dust that billowed forth, visible in the golden light.

"This spot was Neville's favourite place at Hogwarts, second to the greenhouses," Hermione commented.

"Oh?" he said, as he rapidly scanned pages. "And where was yours? I imagine it was also the library. Come closer, I need more light."

Hermione walked towards him, holding her wand just above eye-level. "Mine was the Prefects' Bath. What is it we're looking for, exactly?"

He stopped turning pages, looking down at her with a slight smile playing at his lips. An eyebrow rose. "The bath?"

The darkness concealed her blush. Of course _he_ had to be prurient about it. "An hour of uninterrupted soaking in a fragrant, bubble-filled tub that could fit twelve people would be anyone's idea of relaxing," she said, primly.

His grin widened. "_Twelve_ people, eh? Is that just a random number or based on experimentation?"

She rolled her eyes. "Sod off, Malfoy. You were a prefect. You used the bath too."

He turned his attention back to the book. "Indeed I did. And it's more like _eight_ people."

The pages continued to turn.

"Comfortably, anyway."

She ignored him whilst simultaneously trying to see what was inside the book he was leafing through.

"Maximum of ten, I'd say. It depends on how much splashing you intend on doing."

Hermione groaned. "Trust you to be lascivious at a time like this."

"I'm always lascivious. We've just never really got to know each other before now."

Hermione eyed him warily. He was standing close enough to count eyelashes, as Ginny was known to say. "What's in this book that we need so badly?"

"A list of herbs that if prepared correctly, should boost ReGen's staying power even further. I'm going to bring Longbottom in to consult regarding this, as much as it pains me."

"Excellent! Let me see." She dropped the canvas bag and reached for the book, but he held it away from her.

"The book you get for free. My work on ReGen is also yours, gratis."

This time, it was _her_ eyebrow that rose. Her voice was flat, however. "Goodness, your generosity is boundless."

He ignored her sarcasm. "And you may also have another page of D.R.A.C.O."

Two pages in a day? Boundless generosity, indeed. But as always, there would be a price. Hermione watched as he patted down the many pockets of his trousers, before asking if she had a pen on her. She replied that she did not.

"No matter." Malfoy stuck out his left index finger. "Here, cast _Scribbulus_."

She did, watching as the tip of his finger began to glow.

It would bug her for the rest of time if she didn't say it. So she did. "E.T phone home."

Malfoy paused in the act of raising his hand, to stare at her with a confused expression.

"You can work an electron microscope, but you have no idea about E.T?" she asked.

"Like I said, I know what I need to know." He proceeded to write in the air—a floating paragraph of chemical equations, runic symbols and a diagram to explain their confluence.

Hermione took a step backwards to observe the notes. Even after nearly two decades of life in the Magical world, with all the attendant marvels that she witnessed on a regular basis, there never failed to be something new and oftentimes rather simple, that would momentarily take her breath away. On this occasion, it was silver writing suspended in a foggy cloud of _Lumos_ gold, bordered by seemingly endless darkness. She touched one of the runes and it wavered slightly in the air. It was beautiful enough to make her eyes shine with reverence, but its utility far surpassed its beauty. She turned on the spot and was dismayed to realise Malfoy was against her back. He looked down at her; at her face and then at the sheen in her eyes, for which she felt foolish.

"How much do you want this?" he asked her, his voice now husky.

"Very much," she said. "You want something for it, don't you?"

He didn't reply, merely stared at her. She thought he looked faintly disgruntled.

"What do you want?" she whispered.

"I want you to kiss me."

Hermione was too self-aware to fool herself into thinking that this new request was unexpected or shocking. There would be no morally outraged How Dare Yous, because Hermione suspected she and Malfoy had mutual recognition regarding their odd new relationship. As much as she wanted to insist that he was out of his mind, that his request was completely unethical, she knew it would be a waste of time.

And time was in very short supply.

She sighed, and then looked up at him, straight in the eye. "You really don't care what I think of you, do you? To ask this of me is to invite me to think the very worst of you."

Hermione held her breath as his hand rose to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. As usual, humidity wreaked havoc on her hair. He observed the progress of his hand, looking everywhere but at her eyes. "I doubt I can do much more to sully my already black reputation."

She caught his hand, pulling it away from her. Her heart was beating double-time. "Then why not try to improve it?"

He shrugged with one shoulder. "A good reputation is too much work to maintain."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're stalling," he said, with a smile in his voice.

Hermione turned away for a moment, her hands balling into fists. Damn him. _Games, games, games_. It was all games.

"Fine," she snapped, not looking forward to the conniption Harry was going to have when he found out. "A kiss in return for that page."

It was then that she noticed he still held the very large, unwieldy Herbology tome between them. And that detail suddenly opened a door to new insight. Malfoy was nothing if not precise. Bartering for something as ambiguous as 'a kiss' meant that he was effectively relegating the decision regarding the parameters of the kiss _to her_.

What was a kiss, then? A kiss on the cheek? A kiss on the forehead? A kiss on the hand? Technically, they all qualified. He expected _her_ to pick the option that she found least disagreeable.

Malfoy waited, watching. And it irked her to see the smugness on his face. He knew she was mulling over her options and he reveled in it. This was an exercise designed to discombobulate and to _take_ power.

_He expected her to kiss him on the cheek._

Hermione felt a surge of adrenaline. Oh, yes. Power would be lost, but Malfoy underestimated her if he thought _she_ would be one to cede it.

She didn't need to fake her nervousness as she approached him, it was all too real. He looked on, smug and silent and with the Herbology book still tellingly between them. Breathing hard, with her arms and her wand held stiffly by her side, Hermione raised herself on her toes and tilted her head to make it look like she was going for a quick peck on the cheek. He was that sure of himself that he even assisted by lowering his head slightly to give her better access to the side of his face. Hermione experienced a flash of second-thoughts, but the silver glow from the formula hovering behind them spurred her on.

She took a step forward, no longer merely in front of him, but now walking _into_ him. Before he had a chance to register her intentions, she took hold of his face in her free hand, feeling the rough new growth of beard at his jawline, before sealing her mouth over his. The entire length of his body stiffened. She sensed his desire to back away, almost as keenly as her own. But of course he would realise that if he did that, _he_ would be the one to extricate himself _first_.

Kissing Draco Malfoy was a rather one-sided affair. His lips were tense, his breathing now sharper, his mouth sealed shut. She ran the very tip of her tongue against the seam of his lips and they parted. Kissing on the mouth was one thing, French kissing quite another. She didn't think the latter was necessary, so she focused instead on gently catching his lower lip between hers, before doing the same to his upper lip. It was a brief, quick foray. Hermione tasted sharp, green apple and mellow ginger ale, idly wondering if she tasted the same to him. She pulled away and the natural adhesion of partially moist lips kept their mouths connected for a split second longer. Her hand now rested on his chest, where she could feel the wild hammering of his heart. There was a victory to be savoured from that alone.

She opened her eyes. Despite the clamminess in her palms and the tingling along her scalp and various other random nerve endings, she could not contain her own smugness when she looked at him.

_There_, she thought, _there's your kiss, you god damned, manipulative bastard._

But then she saw his expression. And she saw that it consisted of more than just the realisation that he'd been out-maneuvered. His pupils were blown wide and his breathing was soft, but ragged.

Instinctively Hermione held out her wand to ward him off. It didn't work because she didn't _use_ it.

The book dropped to the floor. He splayed a warm hand around the nape of her neck, two fingers slipping into her hair, just under her ponytail, while his thumb rested beside her cheekbone. His other hand caught her about the waist as he walked her back into the bookshelf. She felt his broom on the floor, beside her feet.

Hermione's mouth opened and he caught her muffled protest in a kiss that made her previous attempt look chaste in comparison. She pushed against his chest, but it was like pushing at a wall. The back of her head met the bookshelf, so there was no way to wrench her mouth free without cracking her skull. One of his thighs parted her knees so that he could more effectively pin her against the shelf. She couldn't bring either knee up if she wanted to. He wasn't stupid enough to put his tongue inside her mouth, or else she would have bitten down on it. Instead, he ran his mouth along her jawline, down to her throat, stopping to suck lightly at the frantic pulse that was beating at the side of her neck.

"You have your wand, Mudblood," he reminded her, his voice gruff and hot against her neck.

Hermione was shaking from head to toe. She placed the tip of her wand against his chest, temporarily dulling her _Lumos_.

"Go on, use it. End our little kiss and I'll have that page back, thanks."

"You bastard," she hissed. Her panic had very nearly boiled over, but she would not yet capitulate. "I'm not the one balking here. Finish your manhandling."

He smiled against her neck and then pressed his hips into her. Her breath caught as she felt the hard length of his arousal nestle against her belly.

"No, I don't think I'll finish it here and now. Not while there are still so many more pages for you to acquire..."

Despite his words, her shaking had now progressed to trembling. She was gripping her wand so tightly; it was a miracle the thing didn't snap in half. A dozen spells were poised on the tip of her tongue, but none of them came out. She had no idea how serious he was about his threat to keep the page, but she could not bring herself to play his game any longer.

Hermione loathed how small her voice sounded when she did speak.

"Draco, please. _Please stop_."

It was probably the first time she had ever called him by his given name. He did stop, so suddenly that she slumped down along the bookshelf. When she rose to her feet, she saw that he looked utterly furious. It was the strongest display of emotion she'd ever seen from him since he'd joined the team.

Malfoy picked up the book, broom and bag, and then let her lead the way back out to the school grounds, beyond the castle's Anti-Apparation barrier. They did not speak to each other. When they Disapparated from the middle of the Quidditch pitch, he did not take her hand this time.


	13. Conflict

**Author's Notes:**

Belated Merry Christmas to all (and an early happy new year). I hope you're having a wonderful holiday season. This smallish chapter is about internal conflicts that needed to be articulated and the steam that needed to be vented. With the romance of the last chapter, I didn't want to gloss over certain realities. We're back on track with the mission in the next chapter. Again, thank you for your continuing feedback.

* * *

It was still dark when they Apparated into Grimmauld Place's designated safe Apparation spot—the back garden. Hermione belatedly realised they were standing in a newly-planted row of Wolfsbane. Ginny and Honoria would not be pleased. Further to that, her beloved tartan bedroom slippers probably needed to be thrown away now. They were soiled and soggy after her trek across a damp Quidditch pitch, through Hogwarts' dusty, deserted corridors and over deceased school caretakers.

This was the least of her troubles, however.

She released Malfoy's wrist just in time to see Harry come barrelling at them from the back door, his mouth open in a snarl. He caught Malfoy around his midsection and both wizards landed heavily on the ground, scattering the herbology book and Malfoy's broom.

There was always a moment of disorientation following Apparation, no matter the distance. Hermione frantically tried to speed up her _re_-orientation, so she could better grasp just what the hell was happening. She shook off the customary woozy feeling and stepped out of the flower trough just as Harry began to throw punches.

"Harry!" Hermione shouted. She ran forward to pull the back of his old t-shirt, which promptly ripped, tearing at the neck hole. It was a stark reminder of how much stronger he was, compared to her. There had been a time, many moons ago in first and second year, when this had not been the case. Hermione honestly could not recall the last time she'd grappled with Harry, though it had probably also been in an effort to restrain him. She grabbed his right arm. He shook her off, along with the remains of his ruined shirt.

"Damn it, Harry! Have you gone mad?"

He didn't look at her. He didn't even seem to register that she was there. This, too, was an annoyingly familiar aspect of male rage—the red-hazed, tunnel vision. It occurred to Hermione that Malfoy was not fighting back. He blocked the fists that were aimed at his head, but seemed to be doing no more than standing his ground, looking as baffled as Hermione felt. Harry lunged for Malfoy's throat. Malfoy slapped his hand away. The sound was loud enough to make her wince.

"No foreplay, Potter? Straight to the main course like the predictable creature you are. If you fuck like you fight, it's no wonder you have trouble hanging on to your girlfriends."

Hermione groaned. Trust Malfoy to stir a pot that had already boiled over. Harry growled and made to grab Malfoy once more. It looked like Malfoy had likely been about to side-step Harry, but unfortunately, this never eventuated.

"_Petrificus Totalis_!" Elizabeth Kent called out. She was standing at the back step with Padma Patil, who was sleep-mussed and dressed in a white, terry-cloth bathrobe. Both women were holding out their wands, though Padma looked markedly more disgruntled than the Debutante.

Malfoy froze in place, just in time to receive the full force of Harry charging into him for the second time that night. The pair went over into the already squashed Wolfsbane. To Hermione's disbelief, Harry straddled the now helpless Malfoy and began laying into him.

"Potter!" Padma yelled. She tossed her long braid over a shoulder, tightened the belt on her bathrobe and entered the fray.

Agent Kent raised her wand again. "Should I just—?"

"_No_!" said Padma and Hermione. It took the combined strength of both women to pull the spitting and swearing Harry off Malfoy.

"Enough!" Hermione shouted, shoving Harry in the chest. "What in the blazes is wrong with you?"

To her astonishment, Harry turned his anger back on her. She didn't think she had ever seen him so furious, and certainly never this furious at her. He bellowed, centimeters away from her face.

"What the hell is wrong with _you_!"

"Me?"

"Yes, you!" Harry said. "What kind of mental case takes off for Merlin knows where, in the middle of the night, with Draco sodding Malfoy? I thought Kent was joking when she woke me up to tell me. But no, you actually went! Do you have any idea what could have happened to you!"

Hermione put some distance between them before she addressed him, slowly and calmly. She used her best, Head Girl's admonishing voice; honed to perfection while at Hogwarts. "Harry James Potter, you either want to have a conversation with me or you want to scream at me. If it's to be the latter, then I'm saying goodnight."

Some of the bluster leached out of him, leaving a weary and slightly sheepish Harry, but Hermione could still see the anger simmering just under the surface. It was probably just as well that Malfoy's sharp tongue was Petrified along with the rest of him. She watched Harry turn away from her, take two steps and then whirl back towards her with a frustrated expression.

"He's bad, Hermione. Bad for this operation and certainly bad for you! I didn't protest enough when you hatched the plan to bust him out of jail. That was my mistake. I should have told Scrimgeour. He might have talked some sense into you about how dangerous it is to have Malfoy here. I don't know how else I can get this fact across to you. I can't watch you all the time—"

"Whoa, hang on a minute," Hermione interrupted, hotly. "I don't _need_ you to watch me."

"If not me, then who?" Harry demanded. "If not Ron then it bloody well falls to me now!"

Hermione gaped at him. "Oh my God, that's it, isn't it? You think you've taken on the mantle from Ron. Is this some kind of macho bullshit thing? Watch over your best mate's girl because he can't?"

Harry stilled. "Are you my best mate's girl, then?"

During the ensuing silence, Hermione could practically feel the heavy stares of Kent, Padma and Harry. She was supremely annoyed to be the focus of what was essentially Harry's unreasonable behaviour. "What Ron and I are, or are not, _isn't_ what is under discussion here," she hissed.

"Too right." Harry nodded vigorously. "It's about you Apparating to parts unknown with a man that could kill you without hesitation. I've nearly lost one of my best friends. I'm not losing the other one because Draco Malfoy happens to have a super duper secret formula that may or may not save the world. I don't bloody care!"

Hermione saw red. She would have grabbed on to the front of Harry's shirt and hauled him closer if he'd still been wearing one, no matter that he was half a head taller than her. "That 'super duper secret formula' may very well save Ron, you dolt. It may save Taransay and every other person in the world who has been touched by this horror. So you think about how utterly selfish you sound when you say you _don't bloody care. _Our situation cannot possibly be more desperate than it already is. I will do whatever I need to do."

"That includes playing mental footsie with Malfoy, does it?" Harry spat back at her. "I'm not blind."

She reclaimed space between them, such that they were nose to nose. "Really? Then tell me what you see is happening out there. No one else, not even the Americans are any closer to a cure. Millions are dead and you have the audacity to be angry at me for putting myself at risk if it means we acquire a cure? Get used to it. You're going to be angry with me quite a bit before we're done. I love you, Harry and I know you love me, but what we're doing here trumps how we both feel."

Harry's jaw tensed. He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and scowled down at his feet. "You lecture me about selfishness and about dire necessity and yet you pander to the one person who is deliberately obstructing what could be a cure." His head came up and even in the darkness, Hermione could see the green blaze of his eyes. "Tell me, have you lectured _him_?"

She was silent for a moment, and then, "No."

"Why not?"

Hermione sighed. "Because it wouldn't work. Not with him."

"Then he really doesn't care?" Harry asked.

"I…I don't know," Hermione admitted. "But what I do know is that he's working on ReGen. And I've got three pages of his formula. I believe I have the means to secure the rest of it."

Harry snorted. "By jumping through hoops? By taking him on midnight joy rides?"

"I'll join the bloody circus if it's what it takes, Harry," said Hermione, with a glare.

Harry attempted to respond, but Padma materialised between them and put a stalling hand on Harry's arm. He was fairly vibrating with anger. "I'd like to get back to bed at some point, seeing as I have to be up in two hours. Also, I'm pretty sure Malfoy's nose is broken. If he's to stay pretty, it's best I mend it sooner rather than later."

"Shall I end the spell?" Kent asked. She'd been so silent and so still that Hermione had nearly forgotten she was there. The Agent was standing over Malfoy, staring down at him with an expression of resigned amusement. The herbology book and Malfoy's broomstick were in her arms.

"Do it after Harry's gone," Padma said. She looked pointedly at Hermione. "Take Harry and go. I've got this."

Harry and Hermione made to protest, but Padma cut them off with a quelling look. "You two need to talk it out. Go. The sooner I mend Malfoy, the sooner I can get back to bed."

Hermione closed her eyes. Belated exhaustion settled over her; the aftertaste of the night's adrenaline roller-coaster. She opened her eyes and looked at the book that Kent was holding, and then she looked at Kent.

"May I have that, please?"

Slightly too much time passed between Hermione's request and Kent handing her the book. But she gave it up, nonetheless. Hermione had no doubt the agent would have preferred turning it in to Richards, instead.

Speaking of the Cowboy…

"Are Richards and Scrimgeour back from their Taransay visit yet?" Hermione asked.

"They're due later this morning," Kent replied. She was still holding Malfoy's broom.

"Then would you please send them a message to bring Neville Longbottom back with them?"

"Neville?" Harry said. "Why do we need him more than Taransay does right now?"

Hermione's tone was still a little cool when she spoke to him. She was already opening the back door to enter the house. Beyond the rooftop, the sky was starting to take on a pink tinge.

"Because like Malfoy, Neville may just be able to help us."

* * *

Padma directed the re-animated Draco Malfoy to the chair at her workstation. "Sit."

He sat. Only, he didn't just sit. Rather, he arranged himself with a straight-backed formality that had probably been acquired through very expensive deportment lessons, or perhaps it was something built into his DNA. Padma knew all about very expensive deportment lessons, but the difference between her and Malfoy was that she couldn't be buggered keeping up the pretense. Slouching and slovenliness was not part of Malfoy's repertoire. To Padma, this trait was not something to be admired. Padma admired range in people, and Malfoy's was decidedly narrow.

Padma was even shorter than Hermione, which meant that the swivel chair was a little too low to the ground for him. His bent knees were nearly at level with her hips. With his hand under his streaming nose, he watched with forensic intensity as she took first-aid supplies from a shelf, put the items on a small metal trolley and wheeled the trolley back to her workstation.

"Tip your head back."

He did as asked. Blood ran down the side of his face, dripping onto the collar of his shirt.

"Try not to bleed on my notes," said Padma, as she slipped on a pair of latex gloves. She used both her thumbs to prod at the bridge of his nose, which was out of alignment.

"Ow," he said.

"I see you've broken your nose before," she observed. "Fight?"

"Bludger," he replied.

"I hate Quidditch," Padma said. There was the sound of peeling plastic and the scent of disinfectant. "I know it's a shocking thing for any British witch or wizard to admit, but if I can't confess to that at the end of the world, then when can I?"

"It's not the—ow—end of the world quite—_ow_!" Malfoy caught her wrist and glared at her. "Do you know what you're doing?"

Padma snorted. "Of course. Do you?" She resumed poking and prodding.

He watched her from under her hands. "To what are you referring?"

"Your reasons for being here." Padma cast an anesthetising charm over the affected area, and then rubbed in one of Professor Yoshida's topical analgesics. "Sit still. Your nose is going to feel like it's not there in a moment. Just breathe normally."

She reached up with both hands and applied pressure. "There," she said, looking pleased with her work. "The swelling should go down in a week or so, but you're going to be sporting black eyes for a while longer." She moistened a wad of gauze with antiseptic solution and began to clean away the dried blood from the cuts ad grazes on his cheeks.

"My reasons for being here are simple enough to discern. There's a pardon at the end of the tunnel," he told her.

"Tilt your chin up, please. Do you want the pardon?"

"Of course I do. I'm a fugitive without it."

"Let me re-phrase. Do you _need_ the pardon?"

There were two possible answers to that question—the one that was seemly and the one that was true. Or perhaps for Malfoy, they were one and the same. Padma doubted it, which was why she had posed the question in the first place. Also, he was taking some time to reply, which she hoped meant he was contemplating being honest in answering.

"No," came the eventual reply, without even a skerrick of lament. "I don't need a pardon."

She felt a flicker of triumph, but it was quickly overshadowed by the resignation that often accompanied her being right about unpleasant things. "I didn't think so. You were never very good at remorse when we were at school. Regret, maybe, but never remorse. Alright, you can lower your chin now. Your eyes are swelling up already, but that's to be expected. Are you experiencing any dizziness, headache, nausea or loss of vision?" She shone a light into his eyes, to check for pupil response.

He shook his head.

All seemed normal, so she turned off the light. The silver eyes that watched her were as cold and foreboding as a glacier. Padma idly wondered how Hermione could possibly see something of merit beyond this. Or perhaps Malfoy just looked at her differently?

"What does the personal value of my pardon have to do with anything?"

Padma nearly smiled at the question. He was curious about her reasons for asking. Maybe Malfoy was human after all?

"Because I'd feel better if you were helping us because you _want_ to and not merely as a means to an end. Because I worry that you're looking for a hundred different ways to break this agreement as soon as you find out how to get what you want without paying for it. Hermione can't seem to tell the difference between you wanting the pardon and you needing it."

"And I gather you do?"

Padma shrugged. "I was always the quiet, introspective twin, remember? The more noise Parvati made, the easier it was for me to sit back and observe."

"Parvati," he said, as if testing the quality of the word. But she knew he was simply dredging up his dim memory of her sister. "How did she die?"

Padma tossed the blood-soaked gauze and latex gloves into a bin. She began packing away the supplies. "Like so many others in this mess—badly. We're done here. You're free to return to your cell."

He stood and reached up to touch his now perfectly re-aligned nasal bones. He was tall, menacing and once again, blood-stained. Though, this time it was from his blood, not Hermione's.

"A cure is coming," he said. She wondered if this was his cryptic way of extending his condolences.

"And you and Hermione are going to be the ones to find it for us, I guess?"

"My full expertise remains an option your team has yet to fully explore. As for Granger, she was and continues to be…" He searched for a word.

"Optimistic," Padma said, almost under her breath.

"Resourceful," he finished.

And then he smiled. Padma realised that he had done this very rarely when they were all at school. Mostly, he'd sneered. Sneers were not smiles, but they could pass for smiles when they were the only outward displays of pleasure you chose to show to the world. He didn't verbally thank her, but dipped his head in acknowledgement of her healing work, and then made to leave.

"Malfoy," she called out to him. It took every ounce of willpower not to demand more concrete answers from him. Padma was not meek, by any stretch of the imagination, but she knew she was out of her depth when it came to Malfoy. You probably only got the truth out of men like Malfoy from men like Agent Richards. Likely, it involved a concrete room and a very loose interpretation of the Geneva Convention.

He paused at the door. Elizabeth Kent was waiting outside to escort him back to his cell.

"Keep in mind that if you hurt Hermione, I'll help Harry finish you off. And I don't need to use my fists. I have much more insidious methods at my disposal. Even you need to sleep some time, yes?"

His impassivity was inhuman, though Padma thought she could detect amusement. "I assure you, Dr Patil. Hermione Granger will not be in any peril, mortal or otherwise, in which she herself will not willingly engage."


	14. Land of the Living

**Author's Notes:**

I am SO SORRY for the huge delay in updating. I'm afraid it's not going to get much better. This year, I've got a seminar, a conference, the PhD, 2 day-jobs and my kid starts Kindergarten in twelve days. Writing a paragraph here and there, is the only thing keeping me from going completely bananas. To answer what seems to be a common question—no, I have not yet watched _The Walking Dead_. Not because I don't want to, but because I just don't have the time to spare.

There are no hotsmoochytimes in this chapter because we're actually approaching the second lot of horror chapters (you have been warned). It will get very, very bad for a while before it gets better. But I am, first and foremost, a romance writer. So rest assured there will be plenty of that, too. Later.

* * *

Neville Longbottom did not want to be at Grimmauld Place.

The small refugee community on Taransay Island had just been through hell and back, and they needed every working wand available to help put things to rights again. Harry and Ginny's recent departure had been hard enough on everyone. He didn't quite know how, but after they left, Neville seemed to be calling more shots than following orders.

He was not used to being the guy _behind_ the clipboard, but if Taransay wanted…no, _needed_ him to point and direct, then he would be that man for them. This was why Rufus Scrimgeour's unexpected visit and subsequent request to have him go to London on a herbology consulting mission, of all things, was met with some resistance.

"No," Neville said to Scrimgeour, which was a word Neville was quite sure the Minister did not hear very often.

Scrimgeour's lips thinned. And then he said, very reasonably (damn the man). "Tell me of another Magibotanist who _can_ help."

Neville thought long and hard. Possibly too long and not quite hard enough because Scrimgeour eventually grunted, as if they had reached the same conclusion.

"Pack your things, Longbottom. You leave for London within the hour."

"Minister, I cannot simply leave these people right now!"

Scrimgeour disagreed by nodding, which was very disconcerting. "Yes, you can. I'll remain behind to look after things until you're done at Grimmauld Place."

A small, tentatively curious crowd was already gathering in the makeshift 'village green' in the middle of the tent city, where Neville was speaking with Scrimgeour. This space was used for the occasional haphazard bout of soccer or cricket, and in one unfortunate experiment—badminton. Not even an enchanted shuttlecock could withstand the Hebridean version of 'breeze'.

The magical folk stepped forward from amongst the assembled gawkers, recognising their Minister. Several senior citizens were looking misty-eyed to see him there. Everyone was still slightly emotional, Neville realised. Molly Weasley had suffered an acute case of wobbly chin when Harry had left and taken Ginny with him. Like her mother, the youngest Weasley had a way with people and had been a favourite of both the Muggles and the Magicals. She promised to keep the rest of the Weasleys updated on Ron's progress.

There was another man from Grimmauld Place who had accompanied Scrimgeour—an older man whom Neville did not know. He wore a cowboy hat, cowboy boots and was leaning against a tree with his arms folded, watching them. All that was missing was a sheriff's badge and a six-shooter at his hip. A small Muggle boy approached him and pointed at his hat, at which point the man took it off and set it atop the boy's head. It covered the lad's eyes, but you could still see the beaming smile just under the brim. Scrimgeour introduced him as 'Agent Richards', from the US Wizarding Senate.

And if _that_ wasn't newsworthy enough, the Minister proceeded to explain it was best that Neville and Agent Richards hurry back to Grimmauld Place as soon as possible.

"I'd rather not leave my team alone with Draco Malfoy any longer than necessary."

_Draco Malfoy_, Neville thought, and then snorted. "Haha. Good one, Minister."

* * *

A week later, Neville was seated cross-legged on the faded rug in the middle of Scrimgeour's temporary office at Grimmauld Place. Around him were stacks of books and several scrolls—one of which he was having trouble keeping unfurled. After several frustrating minutes, he looked around for a paperweight and eventually settled for using one of his shoes. The fireplace sputtered, burned green for a moment and then a crouching Ginny Weasley stepped out into the room. She straightened, brushed the soot from her clothing and walked towards Neville. In her hands was a framed Chinese watercolour featuring a mountainous, tree-covered landscape.

"This it?" she asked, without preamble.

Neville took the painting from her. He produced a magnifying glass and peered closely at the artwork "Oh, well done, Ginny! Looks to be it! Was it hard to get to?"

Ginny sat on the floor beside him. "Thankfully not. Kew Gardens Library is a ghost town."

Neville gave her a commiserating look, noting how dejected she sounded. "Harry said you'd never been to the Gardens before."

"No," she confirmed. "Neither has Ron. We both have always wanted to go. And trust me, you don't want to see them in the state they're in now. Overgrown is putting it mildly. But the Herbarium and Library are pristine."

"And the Millennium Seed Bank?" Neville whispered, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

"Intact, as far as I could tell," Ginny said. "As well it should be. It's meant to be able to withstand one of those Muggle nuclear explosions, isn't it?"

He blinked with relief. It was embarrassing to admit, but occasionally Neville had nightmares about something untoward happening to the Seed Bank. Like someone leaving the door open and letting the moisture in, for example. For botanists (and Magibotanists alike), the Seed Bank was a botanical Noah's Ark. Only he was no Magibotanist, not really. It was just a hobby, which was why he really needed to be concentrating on what was in front of him right now. Professor Sprout would, of course, have been the ideal person to bring in on the Grimmauld Place operation, but she was not available. Neville would have to do. It was almost amusing how many times he'd been thrust into unwitting responsibility.

Unlike Hermione, thought Neville, who seemed to be _inherently_ responsible for most important things.

"It's very pretty," Ginny said, tilting her head to the side to observe the painting.

"'Tis," Neville agreed. They both stared in silent, aesthetic appreciation.

And then Neville picked up his shoe and smashed the glass frame.

Ginny winced, but looked on eagerly to see if what they were looking for was there. Neville picked away the broken glass and then very carefully peeled the painting from its backing board. He turned the parchment over and there, in minute script, but still clearly visible, was an inscription in English.

"Ahah," breathed Neville. He held the inscription up to the light, running his lamentably grubby thumb gently across the writing. "Looks like our long-shot paid off. This inscription adds to the dozen other similar references we've now collected on how to extract the Nectar from our specimen."

"You mean this Majestic Mountain Peach in that book Malfoy and Hermione brought back from Hogwarts?" Ginny asked.

"Kunlun Mountain Peach," Neville corrected, with a smile. "And yes, the text lists the Peach as the most powerful preservative known to magic. Its famous Nectar is exactly what Hermione and Malfoy need to augment ReGen. There isn't anything more potent. Apart from the Philosopher's Stone, of course."

"And I imagine that would be much harder to get seeing as Philosopher's Stones don't just grow on trees," Ginny commented, then frowned. "So where _do_ you find this special peach tree? Kunlun Mountain, I assume?"

Neville shook his head. "Kunlun Mountain is about as real as Mount Olympus. And I suspect the plant in question is not, in fact, of the prunus genus at all. I think it's really some kind of tuber—like the Mandrake."

Ginny made a sound to convey her growing impatience. "Where do we look for it, then? Is there even a specimen to be found? How is it going to help Ron if we don't even know where it is or what it looks like?"

"Oh, I know exactly where to find the only Kunlun Mountain Peach to still exist," Neville said. And then he looked distinctly troubled.

"Well?"

"See, this is where it gets a little tricky..."

* * *

Hermione tossed the old copy of _Time Magazine_ onto the kitchen table, where the Cowboy was presently going through a stack of supply requests—a task that needed to be taken over in Scrimgeour's absence. Richards picked up the magazine, glanced at it and then gave Hermione a curious look. His gaze moved to Neville, who stood at the doorway, eating a piece of toast.

"I prefer _Cosmo_, but thanks for thinking of me, Miss Granger."

Hermione rolled her eyes and then pointed one nail-bitten finger to the figure on the cover. "_This_ is the man who has our Kunlun Mountain Peach."

Richards frowned down at the picture of a striking, black haired man in his early-thirties. He was seated sideways across a baroque armchair, a lopsided crown on his head and a scepter in his hands. The smirk on the man's face had a disturbingly Malfoy-ish quality to it.

"This…_peacock_?" Richards asked, incredulous. "Are you sure?"

"Poshitif," said Neville who was demolishing his marmalade on toast. Taransay had unfortunately been a marmalade-free zone. "Alexander Amarov is the world's foremost collector of magical herbs. Among those in the know, it has been rumoured for many years now that he has managed to acquire the Peach."

"To what end?" Richards asked. "He's an eccentric Muggle billionaire, isn't he? What the hell does he want it for?"

"I think he knows what it is, but he has no idea what to _do_ with it. His family originally made their money in botanical pharmaceuticals and somewhere along the line, Amarov developed a fascination with magical flora," Neville explained.

"_Allegedly_ magical flora," Hermione corrected. She was leafing through the _Time Magazine_ article. "Before the Infection, he was never able to prove any of his claims regarding the existence of Magical folk. Or else I'm sure the Russian Ministry of Magic might have had something to say about it."

"Alright, so Alexander Amarov probably has the Peach," Richards said, standing up. "Let's pay the man a visit."

"Do we know where he is?" Hermione asked. "I mean, he might not even be alive, right?"

Richards was already heading toward the kitchen stairs. "I can find out easily enough. Let me speak to my people on the Floo."

When the Cowboy was gone, Neville began preparing what was his fourth or fifth piece of toast. He'd lost count. "Who are 'his people', anyway?" he asked Hermione.

Hermione was now occupying Richards' seat at the kitchen table and had already begun picking up where Richards had left off, sorting through the supply requests. "I don't know, Neville. But they seem to have lots and lots of guns."

* * *

The lights in the basement ward were flickering.

There was no electricity supply to be sourced off the grid, but a second-hand generator had thus far been used to supply Grimmauld Place with power to all non-essential systems. The clinic and laboratory were rigged to run off a smaller, uninterrupted supply that was magically operated and as such, would not fail. Despite its decrepit state, the larger generator had been running well for the past six months, but had lately begun to develop problems. Harry was looking into it, or so he had promised.

The ward was pitched into momentary darkness, with nothing but the beeping red, blue and yellow lights and numerical displays on the equipment in Ron's room.

"Damn these lights," Padma complained. She was about to walk out into the corridor to turn the main switch off and back on again, when the ceiling lights returned.

Emily Finch was sitting in the chair beside Ron's bed, seemingly unperturbed by the intermittent blackouts. "You look dead on your feet," she told Padma, and then pulled a face. "Oops. Bad choice of words…"

Padma had enough energy left in her to laugh. "True. On both counts." She had been about to commence Ron's nine p.m. check-up. Emily was on a lab break, but dropped in for a visit with Ron just as Padma had arrived.

"Go and have a cup of tea or something," Emily said. "I've got this."

"His CVC needs to be looked at. And Mercer noted his blood pressure was slightly elevated yesterday, also—"

"Jesus, Patil, I can read the notes. Don't worry. Take a break or I'll tell Granger on you."

That made Padma snort. She removed her stethoscope from around her neck and groaned when the lights flickered again. "Hermione happens to be the Patron Saint of Overtime."

"Yeah, but she gets super annoyed when any of us take on a double shift without running it past her first."

Padma pondered this. "I think that may have more to do with messing up her roster. Hermione's ideal world is a world that runs on rosters. But I _am_ going to take you up on your kind offer." She began to pack away her medi-kit. "A cup of tea would be very nice. And these lights are giving me a bloody migraine."

"You know, Dr Mercer's on his break, too," Emily said, with a conspiratorial smile. The young nurse took a pair of latex gloves from the wall-mounted dispenser and began to pull them on. "I'm sure he'd love your company. Last I saw he was in the kitchen trying to drink coffee through something called a Tim Tam."

Padma's eyed widened. "There are Tim Tams in this house?"

"Uhuh," Emily said. "Neville Longbottom apparently had some stashed away at Taransay. He brought a few packets with him and traded them for marmalade, the fool."

"Merlin, that's it. I'm definitely clocking out for Tim Tams!" Padma picked up her medi-kit, but paused just outside the sliding, grill door, "Em, are you sure you're fine here with Ron?"

"Positive! Go!"

Padma went. Emily still wore a faint smile as she went about performing a routine check of the equipment, before approaching Ron. She removed the sheet entirely and pushed aside his hospital gown so that she could inspect his central line, as Padma had advised.

Emily immediately frowned. Something was very wrong. The skin around the catheter was the colour of an old bruise—yellow, black and purple—and it looked like it was beginning to suppurate. Already the flesh around his sternum was taking on a viscous sheen. And there it was…the smell. They all knew that God awful stench so well by now. Emily hurriedly flicked through the patient notes to check when Ron had received his last dose of ReGen.

Could it be that someone had forgotten to administer it?

No. It was only three hours since his last dose and it had been given to him by none other than Hermione.

Hermione and Draco Malfoy talked about the ReGen Threshold like it was some kind of bogeyman lurking in the not-too-distant future. They were working themselves to exhaustion currently to find a means to stave off that dreaded inevitability.

It was all for nothing, because Emily was quite sure she was looking at the Threshold right now. Nine weeks since he was bitten, only now it seemed Ron's Infection had finally managed to catch up. And that was bad news for everyone else on the outside who was currently surviving via ReGen.

"Shit," Emily hissed. She ran out to the corridor to see if Padma was still there.

She wasn't.

Emily walked back to the cell. Apart from Ron's outward appearance, nothing much had changed besides his blood pressure. The beeping and soft, rhythmic whispering of the equipment calmed her, somewhat. Nothing was going to be achieved by her running upstairs to call everyone to Ron's cell. Kate McAlister was on duty in the labs. Emily decided to take a blood sample to the virologist first, and make absolutely certain of her suspicions before Harry, Hermione or Ginny Weasley were informed. It would be the prudent thing to do.

With shaking hands, she took a syringe from the supply cabinet and approached Ron. The clipboard of notes had been left on the edge of the bed. Emily's hip brushed against it and the plastic clipboard clattered to the floor. She instinctively ducked down to reach for it.

The lights flickered again and then the room was plunged into darkness.

The clipboard had fallen somewhere under the bed. Emily crawled on her hands and knees now, still holding the capped syringe. She stretched her free hand out as far as it would go, moving her palm over the floor to feel for the clipboard. Her fingers found it just as her cheek came into contact with Ron's hand. It had been hanging over the edge of the bed.

Not at all where Padma had left it.

His skin was warm…

Ever so slowly, holding her breath, Emily crawled backwards—retreating from the bed and from Ron. Her eyes were opened wide and her mouth had gone completely dry. She was too terrified to even swallow because of the sound it might make. She stood, rising inch by inch, unfortunately coming into contact with an unused IV stand in the corner. It rolled across the floor briefly. In response, there was a quick, soft noise from the bed—like sheets being pulled sharply across the mattress. Emily wanted to run, and damn it she could run _so very fast_, but not in this darkness, possibly into a wall or a pillar or into whatever it was that was moving around the—

Another sound; a long rattling breath that seemed to exhale for eons.

Emily started to cry, silently.

_Lights. Pleasepleasepleaseplease…._

She was not Magical, she did not carry light with her like Padma or Hermione or Harry.

Suddenly, it was bright again. _Too_ bright. Emily winced and covered her eyes with her forearm, but not before she saw the tall figure standing beside the bed. It took a few seconds for her pupils to adjust, but when they did, she uncapped the syringe with wildly shaking hands and held it out defensively in front of her.

Ronald Weasley's eyes were wide open. They were not brown, like his sister's. Emily had forgotten just how blue they were.

And they were staring straight at her.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Shit + Fan = Chapter 15. Also featuring, The Saboteur!

TimTams make many people happy, Padma is no exception. I'm partial to the Cherry Ripe ones, even though most people don't like them.

I don't even know if anyone is interested, but I thought I'd ask anyway. Is anyone remotely interested in seeing the playlist of songs I use as my 'muse music' for this story? I feel wanky just asking this, but it's been such a huge motivation for me in writing the story. Let me know?


	15. Held Hands

**Author's Notes: **

Yay! I managed to squeeze in another update. Besides horror and gore, there is character death in this chapter. But I think you knew that already. In many ways, the story actually starts from here. Thank you for your reviews and encouragement. I appreciate all of it.

For those who want to see to the **playlist**, please go to the bottom of my profile page to see the link, as I can't seem to add links here.

* * *

Hermione stared at the monitor; at the output from the six hours of modelling they had conducted using the computer. She frowned. And because she was just that frustrated, she shook her fist at it.

Malfoy's low laugh was almost inaudible, but she heard him because she was standing directly over him as he sat in a chair in front of the computer. "If threats don't work, you could try bribery next."

_And you would know all about such unscrupulous methods_, she thought. It took effort not to cast a glance at the whiteboard to their left, which contained a summary of the D.R.A.C.O notes he had thus far ceded to them. It was a slow process which frustrated Kate McAlister even more than it did Hermione. That made sense because McAlister was a virologist and it was a special kind of torture to be offered mere fragmented glimpses of the Holy Grail, so to speak. Malfoy was as good as his word—more pages had been forthcoming over the past week and a half, and so far he had traded them for seemingly inconsequential things. And despite Harry's dire predictions, none of those bargains had involved Hermione.

"Not yet," Harry warned. "Give the bastard some time to work up to it again."

But then D.R.A.C.O had been temporarily put out of their minds as their most recent augmented batch of ReGen began to fail. Given the rate of failure, it was no longer appropriate to keep testing the drugs on Ron. This was why Mercer had introduced the SVM technique, which allowed them to run computer models of the various permutations of ReGen to see how each fared against an Infection that continually mutated.

Hermione picked up the SVM report and scowled. "Why do we keep getting different results? Are we even using this thing correctly?

"Get Mercer to take a look," Malfoy suggested. His broken nose had now healed completely, although at close quarters, you could still see the shadow of the awful bruising.

"No," Hermione said, "Alec's on his break right now. Let him be."

"It could be input error," Malfoy suggested. He picked up a mug of what smelled like brandy with a splash of coffee.

She looked at him. "_You_ drew up the data set."

A shrug. "I'm not infallible."

"Really?" Her eyebrows rose. "You act like you are."

Malfoy gave her a lop-sided smile. "I am not to be blamed for your flawed perception of me."

Hermione was pretty sure if she lit a match, the space between them would be set alight by the alcohol on his breath. He was not yet close to being drunk, but there was potential for it. It had been a slow, frustrating day.

So what _did_ you do when your work and productivity was taking a nosedive and you'd been up for thirty-six hours straight and the last time you had anything to eat was when Neville Longbottom gave you a piece of toast and right now Draco Malfoy was looking at you like you were the chess board in a game he was playing with a master?

"Give that here," she muttered, taking the cup from his hands.

Hermione drained the remainder of its corrosive contents, very aware that he had swivelled his chair around to completely face her. She was standing between his legs as he sat, sprawled and relaxed in the chair. He was no longer smiling. There was something of the odd anger she had witnessed in him on their recent jaunt to Hogwarts. It wasn't anger _at her_, per se. Rather, she suspected it might be self-directed. He didn't seem to enjoy intimacy that he didn't have complete control over. She wondered if, like her, he sometimes forgot himself when they were together. Whatever 'himself' was….

These musing were soon waylaid by the burning in her throat. "Bloody hell," Hermione wheezed, her eyes beginning to water. Amused, he took the mug from her.

There was silence. It was impossible to turn her attention back to the computer screen, not with the way he was contemplating her.

"What would you want to do right now, if you could do anything you wanted?" he asked.

Hermione was immediately flustered, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol. Coming from Malfoy, that was like asking her what was her favourite song. She searched his pale, handsome face and was very perturbed to find genuine—dare she say it—_friendly_ curiosity there? And a languor that seemed to be stealing into her, too. She ought to be pleased that his opacity was not a permanent state of affairs. There were depths to him, obviously, and she seemed to be staring into several layers right now.

"I'd rather be looking at SVM outputs that confirm we've permanently fixed ReGen," she said, stiffly. She picked up a stack of old reports and walked to Padma's unoccupied desk, several meters away. It was strange how proximity was never an issue when they were working. At all other times, she couldn't be far enough away from him.

"I don't mean what you want to happen right this minute, in this room, in this reality. I mean if all this never happened, what would you want to do?" he persisted.

She shrugged. "I suppose I'd be back at the Ministry working in R&D."

"That's what you did before the Infection?"

"Yes." Sometimes, it was easy to forget he'd been out of the loop for years.

"But was that what _you_ wanted to do?"

Hermione opened her mouth to say yes, but then caught herself. She'd always had the aptitude for research, but was it really her chosen vocation? Was it her calling? Goodness, she'd never really _thought_ about it. There had been no real alternative career, certainly not when Voldemort had been a threat. Just thinking about Voldemort put things back into perspective.

"Some of us don't have that have the luxury of options when dark wizards and their idiot followers decide they're going to try to destroy everything," she said.

He apparently disagreed. "Oh, you had options. You're Muggleborn. Voldemort was not part of the world you were born into. You could have walked away."

That made her furious, and inexplicably disappointed with him. "Voldemort would have ended up being a Muggle _and_ Magical problem. You're either delusional to not know that, or your being deliberately disingenuous. And if you think I would have just left Ron and Harry to deal with him, then you've learned _nothing_ about me these past few weeks."

He stood and walked across the room to her. As usual, the clothes he wore were borrowed—on this occasion, Felix Wallen's blue jeans and a plain, black t-shirt. It was ironic how well he wore clothing that did not suit him in the slightest. But then she really had no idea what suited Malfoy anymore. Not formal robes, seemingly. Not the combat gear he'd worn to hospital mission and not his prison uniform.

"I said you could have walked away, not _would _have," Malfoy said, when he was standing before her. "My knowledge of what that distinction means when it comes to _you_, Granger, demonstrates just how much I do understand you."

She didn't reply, instead fixed her eyes on a spot across the room and tried to calm her anger.

Malfoy's head dipped low. "You're angry," he concluded, sounding almost cajoling. "Why?"

Hermione looked him in the eye. "Because when you're like this, you make me forget who you are."

She remembered their macabre conversation in the bathroom shortly after he had arrived at Grimmauld Place. It felt like years had passed since the dangerous tension of those early, difficult days.

_"Bad people are to be found anywhere, if you care to look."_

_"Indeed. There's one right here in this room."_

_"_So tell me if I have the right measure of you, Granger. You care because it is your nature to do so, and you help because you can."

"Because I have to!" And Merlin, the resentment in her voice shocked her. When she finally mustered up the temerity to look at him, he was watching her with something akin to pity.

"It must be utterly _exhausting_ being in that head of yours," he said, sounding exasperated on her behalf. To her dismay, he raised a hand and tucked a curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered around the shell of that ear, causing her skin to flush from her hairline to her décolletage. "Even now you're worried that you're being selfish by merely _thinking_ that you might be selfish."

She caught his hand and was thrown off guard, once more, when he threaded his fingers through hers. What was even worse was that she _let_ him. His larger hand was warm and strong. She relaxed, letting him take the load of perhaps more than just the combined weight of their hands. The idea of sharing her burden was so painfully delicious that she momentarily reeled from it. For the first time in a very long time—years, perhaps—she felt tempted to articulate a dark, shameful thought.

_Maybe I don't want to do any of this anymore… _

The idea was taboo. To think such things was forbidden and she would die before she gave in to such indulgence. And yet there was something about Malfoy that made her long to simply say it.

He seemed to sense how close she was to admitting it. "Let me ask you this, then—what do you want?"

It was wrong how quickly the answer came to her. She was starting to feel the hot itch of tears, which went along nicely with the lump of shame in her throat. "I want to not be needed."

"Yes." He nodded. "Spread the load, Granger. You carry it all and you are splintering beneath the weight. I am equal parts baffled and amazed that something so small and fragile could have lasted so long."

That annoyed her. She had enough prejudice to contend with, being Muggleborn and a woman. "I am _not_ fragile."

His hand slid to the back of her neck, under the heavy weight of her hair. Using his thumb and middle finger, he pressed deeply into the base of her scalp, massaging. Good God, it was bliss. Her eyes shut and she told herself she should move away now…soon…

_Oh, bloody hell that felt good._

"Your breaking points are all too easy to discern. You wouldn't have survived a week in Voldemort's ranks."

Despite the fact it was insanity to offer any form of encouragement to him, she could not summon the willpower to pull away. Her forehead fell forward to allow him better access to her neck. She felt his lips at her hairline, felt his warm breath there.

"What are your breaking points?" she asked him in return. "How are we so different?"

"I'm pragmatic," he said. She could feel the low rumble of his voice. "Flexible."

"I'm not?"

"Not like Scrimgeour and Richards. And you won't even let them do their jobs."

Hermione understood what he was saying and was alarmed enough to lift her head and stare at him. He didn't release her. Instead, she felt his hand slide around to her spine, kneading all the way. For weeks now she had watched those same, strong, long-fingered hands at work—writing, typing, measuring, dispensing, administering. He was meticulous, hard-working, startlingly intelligent and inherently intuitive when it came to his research. He possessed all the qualities she admired and yet he was also Draco Malfoy. The world had gone crazy, clearly. And why not? It was on the brink of annihilation.

"You think I should have let Richards torture you for the information?"

"Yes," he said. "It's what I would have done and it's not too late to change your mind."

His left hand was threaded through her right hand and his right hand was now cupping her cheek, tilting her chin up to meet his mouth. Malfoy was treating her like fine, bone China, like she was every bit as fragile as he purported her to be. He was going to kiss her, and this time, there had been no bargain laid out regarding D.R.A.C.O. This was just him and her and quite possibly too much stress and too much brandy on empty stomachs.

Alarms went off at both Padma and Hermione's work stations. They were not loud, but they were urgent.

Malfoy's head came up sharply. "What is that?"

Hermione had already gone pale. "Ron!" she said, by way of explanation. She rushed to her computer and searched through the numerous windows on the desktop until she found the one that displayed the readings on the equipment monitoring Ron's status. "Odd. They're not registering anything," she said, frowning.

"Do you mean—"

"No," she replied, knowing what he was going to suggest. "They're not indicating he's in trouble." She blinked in puzzlement. "It looks like he's been disconnected from all the equipment. Or there's been some kind of catastrophic power failure. I'm going down to have a look."

Hermione hurriedly opened her desk drawer to pull out her medi-kit and then ran to the lab entrance just as Honoria Cloot was entering.

"Oh, good!" Hermione exclaimed, relieved to see the Mediwitch. "We have to get downstairs to Ron! He's—"

"Imperio," said Honoria.

* * *

"Put down your medi-kit and give me Malfoy's tether," Honoria demanded.

Hermione dropped the bag on the floor, but then remained motionless.

"I said—"

"You're wasting your time," Malfoy said. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were trained on the wand Honoria held out towards Hermione. "I'm tethered to Agent Kent at the moment."

"Oh," said Honoria, looking momentarily put out. "I see. Hermione, be a dear and find Elizabeth Kent for me. Bring her back here. Tell her you need urgent assistance. Wake her up if you have to. Do you understand?"

Hermione nodded.

"Excellent. Go."

Honoria waited until the laboratory doors had fallen shut, before she turned to look at Malfoy.

"_You_," he said, folding his arms.

"Yes, me." Honoria smiled. "I have a business proposition for you, Mr Malfoy."

* * *

Hermione raged, trapped in a tiny portion of her own mind where she was permitted to see, hear, feel, touch and even speak, but her actions were not of her own volition. She was a puppet. The sadistic thing about _Imperio_ was that it made you feel like _you_ were pulling your own strings as soon as the spell-caster's instructions were relayed. There was also a very slight feedback loop between Hermione and Honoria. If Hermione dulled her panic, she could only just make out that Honoria was anxious, but excited. _Happy excited_. That was good. That meant no one needed to be harmed or killed just yet, including Malfoy.

"Hi," Mercer said, as he passed her on the landing.

_Alec, help me_, Hermione wanted to say. Of course, nothing came out.

"If you're looking for Tim Tams, you'd better hurry. Padma's demolishing the last packet." He winked at her and then bounded ahead, taking two steps at a time.

Hermione looked down at her feet and willed them to stop. They didn't. So she continued along the landing, past the room where Professor Yoshida was speaking energetically with Richards. The Cowboy was laughing. It was such a rare and pleasant sound, coming from him. She walked past the room that Neville shared with Harry, and finally stopped at the last room—the one used by Padma and Agent Kent. Hermione turned the door handle. It opened. Padma was in the kitchen, as Mercer had said, but Agent Kent was asleep. This was not surprising considering she had recently finished a twelve-hour duty shift. As it happened, Hermione did not need to speak to wake her. The Debutant roused as soon as the door opened. Groggy and with sleep-creases on her cheek, she still looked like a fairy-tale princess.

"Granger? Is everything alright?" she asked, her voice still sleep-rough. Her wand was already in her hand.

Hermione wanted to weep. Elizabeth Kent was formidable; as good as Harry and perhaps as ruthless in a fight as Malfoy. But even she would not think to defend herself against one of her own; against a friend.

"Please come to the lab right away. I need you," Hermione heard herself say.

_Don't listen to me!_

Kent frowned. "What is it?"

"Please come with me now."

It took Kent all of two minutes to pull on a t-shirt over her tank top and pyjama pants, and follow Hermione back down the stairs. There, they ran into Harry. Hermione wanted to scream from frustration when Harry didn't ask them where they were going in such a hurry. And damn it, Kent did not offer up an unsolicited explanation.

_HARRY! HARRY! HARRY!_ Hermione bellowed, silently and desperately. _HELP!_

But he kept on going.

Hermione reached the lab doors first and pushed them open. She tried to do a hundred different things to stall, to send subtle signals to Kent that a trap lay beyond those doors, but none of it worked. Inside the lab, Honoria stood with her wand held out, her lips slightly parted in anticipation. And then there was Malfoy. Minutes ago, he had been holding her hand. Now, she barely recognised him. The dubious ally and scientist was gone. She was now looking at the Death Eater.

* * *

Harry paused. He turned around slowly, assailed by the oddest feeling as he watched Hermione and Kent walk to the end of the corridor and disappear into the lab.

* * *

Honoria cast the Killing Curse as soon as Elizabeth Kent shut the lab doors behind her. A bright burst of green light briefly illuminated the room. Hermione stood beside Kent's body, looking directly ahead at nothing in particular.

Kent fell rather gracefully to the ground, all things considered. Her long, blonde hair fanned about her head and her wand lay in her slack hand. The golden tether materialised around her wrist, now vividly corporeal.

Honoria picked it up and knotted it around her own wrist. After that, she snapped Kent's wand in half. "So are we clear on what needs to happen?" she asked Malfoy.

"Crystal," he enunciated. In the short time Hermione had been on her errand to find Kent, Malfoy had already gathered all their records regarding ReGen. Honoria took an empty document box from the shelves and instructed Malfoy to fill it with the notes and data.

"Quickly," she said, looking anxiously at the door. "We have half an hour before the next shift commences." She began cleaning the whiteboard.

"Done," Malfoy informed. He dropped the box on the floor, none too gently.

"Now wipe the computers."

That made him laugh, though there was no real amusement there. "Your faith in me is humbling, Miss Cloot. But you do realise that if I fail to create a vaccine, _this_ team will effectively be humanity's last hope? If we sabotage them, we may very well be sabotaging ourselves."

"My employer is willing to take that chance."

"But are _you_?"

Honoria pointed her wand at him. "I go where the money goes, as do you. You're a businessman first and then a scientist. Now, are you going to see to the computers or do I have to get creative?"

Malfoy did not move. Honoria rolled her eyes. "Fine." She levelled her wand at each of the laboratory's nine machines and cast a spell that slowly crushed them. It wasn't as precise as manual deletion of the data, but it would have to do. The room filled with the sound of crunching, twisting metal and an acrid, chemical stench. When this task was completed, Honoria walked to the laboratory's bank of portable hard drives and did the same to them.

"There will be backups elsewhere," Malfoy said.

"No doubt," Honoria replied. "This isn't going to stop the project, this will merely slow them down and provide you with a healthy lead. And speaking of slowing them down…." She turned to Hermione. "Come here."

Hermione obediently walked to Honoria, stopping just beside Padma's desk.

"Hermione, I want you to take a scalpel from Patil's medi-kit."

"What are you doing?" Malfoy hissed. "We don't have time for this. We need to leave _now_."

"Indeed," said Honoria, "but I'm going to ensure we have a head start if they choose to pursue us. Hermione, hold the scalpel against your neck. Now, I want you to—"

"Think this through, you fool," Malfoy interrupted. "If you harm her, I guarantee Potter will be doubly enthusiastic when it comes to tracking us down!"

The soft 'pop' of Apparition was audible in the tense atmosphere of the lab, but the brief warning did not provide sufficient time for Honoria to defend herself.

"You should listen to him," Harry said, after he appeared directly behind Honoria. "He's known me far longer than you have."

In short order, Honoria was brought to the ground. She fired a Hex once, twice. The second spell glanced off a wall, narrowly missing Hermione, who remained transfixed with her hand clenched around the scalpel. It was pressed lightly to the side of her neck, but with enough pressure to cause blood to bead from a small puncture.

Harry locked Honoria's arms behind her back. She trashed and bucked briefly, but with a final whimper of pain, threw down her wand.

"Malfoy, get it!" Harry ordered.

Malfoy sighed. "Oh, Potter. You really should take more care in selecting your allies," he said, before he kicked Harry under the chin. "_That's_ for breaking my nose."

Harry was laid out flat on his back. He lost hold of his wand. It skidded across the laminate floor, stopping just under Padma's desk, beside Hermione.

Now released from Harry's hold, Honoria scrambled madly for her own wand. She grinned at Malfoy when she retrieved it, but the look of triumph died on her face as her gaze travelled past Malfoy, to the lab entrance.

Ronald Weasley stood just inside the doorway, looking hollow-eyed and emaciated. His posture was rigid, though he leaned slightly to the left. The entire left side of his hospital gown was stained with blood, as was the lower half of his face. In his fisted right hand, he held a clump of short, blood-matted, blond hair. There was a syringe sticking out of the base of his neck.

Harry released a choked sob as he tried to lift himself up to a sitting position. He was bleeding profusely from his mouth and nose, such that blood burbled over his lips when he tried to speak.

Malfoy remained very still, his body in a defensive stance, his hands held tensely at his side. He spoke to Honoria without looking at her. "Release Granger."

Honoria did not respond. She remained stunned as she gaped at Ron.

But it appeared that Ron only had eyes for Hermione, who was closest to him. With sharp, jerking movements, he stepped over Kent's body. His bare feet left faint, bloody footprints along the floor. He stopped in front of Hermione and raised his clenched hand. Hermione's expression was serene, her eyes fixed at a spot over Ron's shoulder. However, a single tear slid down her cheek. It required apparent effort for Ron to open his trembling fist, one stiff finger at a time, and then place his curled hand against Hermione's face. It left a bloody trail along her skin. His movements were clumsy as he tried to stroke her cheek. A look of acute frustration contorted his face at his inability to refine his movements. His wrist bumped the scalpel Hermione held, and it cut her. Blood pooled just below her clavicles. Ron did not seem to notice. He made a low, keening sound and bent his head down to Hermione.

"Ron!" Harry yelled. He looked horrified. "Ron, mate…you're not well. Come away from Hermione. You need to let us help you." Harry tried to get up, but stopped when Ron swivelled his head toward Harry and released a soft, threatening growl.

"Potter, I strongly suggest you remain quite still," Malfoy advised. At the sound of his voice, Ron's gaze briefly flickered to Malfoy, but it was obvious his attention was fixed on Hermione.

"_Do something_," Harry whispered to Malfoy and Honoria. He stared at his own wand, under Padma's desk.

Another tear slid down Hermione's cheek. Ron flicked out his tongue, the colour of eggplants, and licked at the salty trail. He began to nuzzle her.

"Malfoy, help her!" Harry said, openly pleading this time. He coughed up more blood and fought to remain upright in a sitting position.

"Honoria, you will end the spell immediately or I will not leave with you!" Malfoy threatened, his diamond-hard stare attempted to bore holes into the back of Honoria's head. But she wasn't looking at him, or apparently hearing him. Malfoy then began walking towards Hermione, but stopped short when Ron's head snapped towards him. The tender expression he wore was now replaced with a feral snarl. The warning was clear—_keep away_.

"Finite incantatum," Honoria finally said, although she made no attempt to assist Hermione. She gave Malfoy a pointed look before slowly crawling across the floor and taking hold of the box of records.

When the spell was ended, Hermione shuddered and then seemed to collapse in on herself. The scalpel fell to the floor. Her eyes shut momentarily, but when they opened she stared at Ron with a mixture of grief and horror, and then tried to step away from him.

He hands clamped around her upper arms.

"No, Ronald…" she said, shaking her head. "It's me. Hermione."

But that was precisely the problem. He knew her, but he did not appear to know what he wanted to do with her. He hauled her closer, shaking her and making low, guttural noises. And then suddenly, he stopped. The look he gave Hermione was full of agony. His mouth seemed to work for a moment, his lips forming the required syllables.

"Hermione?" he whispered. And _this_ was Ron. This was the boy from the train with the smudge on his nose who had looked with envy at Harry and had hoped for his friendship. It was Ron, who fought alongside Harry and was ashamed for all the times he had not. Ron, who loved Quidditch and his mum and was bad with girls, but always knew he would ask Hermione Granger to marry him someday, when Harry did not need them to fight for him anymore.

"Ron!" Harry called out. He rose shakily to his feet and began to stagger across the floor.

Hermione tried to push Ron away, but he held fast, his fingers digging into her biceps. And then he moved his hands from her arms to her face, holding her head in a constricting vise. She cried out in pain and clawed at his hands. If there had been the light of reason in Ron's eyes before, it was beginning to fade as Hermione struggled in his grasp. The humanity disappeared, leaving wildness in its wake. Her snarled, opening his mouth wide, bringing her head to him.

Honoria was utterly frozen in fascinated horror. Harry shouted and raged.

It was Malfoy who darted forward; a quicksilver blur. He picked up the scalpel Hermione had dropped and ran it across the back of Ron's Achilles tendons. Ron immediately collapsed to the ground. Thick, viscous blood pooled around his feet. Malfoy's hand moved again and Padma's scalpel, always so exquisitely maintained, sliced across Ron's throat, through blood vessels and tendons, stopped only by bone. Ron twitched once and then his eyes closed.

Hermione sagged down against the side of Padma's desk.

Malfoy crouched down beside her. "Granger," he said, quickly, urgently. "Look at me."

She complied, though her eyes were wide and unfocussed with shock. "_You killed him_."

Honoria appeared beside them, carrying the box of notes. She placed a shaking hand on Malfoy's shoulder. "Time to go."

* * *

It was another ten minutes before Professor Yoshida arrived at the lab for the start of his ten o'clock shift. He was in good spirits after a rather rousing debate with Agent Richards. The Potions Master found young Elizabeth Kent on the floor, dead and cold. Harry Potter was unconscious not far from her and a catatonic Hermione Granger was sitting in a pool of black blood beside the grisly remains of Ronald Weasley. She was holding his hand.


	16. Armada

**Author's Notes:**

One of the best things about D/Hr is Draco's POV. Whether writing or reading it, I _always_ have a blast.

Thank you for reading and taking the time to review. It's fantastic and helpful to receive your feedback.

* * *

Draco stood on the dock watching the approaching storm. The air was humid and heavy with the scent of rain. Stretched out before him was the North Sea; currently the colour of charred iron with the wind whipping up waves into a dark frenzy.

He contemplated his new companions.

To his right was Ivan, who seemed to be wearing leftover fabric from the type of lounges you would find at a brothel—the kind you could wipe down easily. On the left was Anatoli, who was quiet and nervous. There was a third, an angry and agitated fellow who hadn't given up his name yet. Details were important in situations like these, and so:

"What's your name, friend?" Draco asked, in Russian.

The man opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Ivan. "Don't speak to him or look at him," Ivan warned.

Draco responded with amusement. "I'm a wizard, not Medusa."

"Oh, we know weezards," countered Ivan. He spat on the ground in front of Draco's feet, a universal declaration of 'fuck you'. His dumpy face twisted up into a sneer. "You are a crime against nature!"

"That suit is a crime against nature," Draco muttered, in English. He would like very much to kill someone that evening. Well someone who _wasn't_ already the walking dead.

Ivan took a cock-strutting step toward Draco. Impossibly, his suit managed to make more noise than the wind. "What you say?"

Close-up, Draco could see the tell-tale scars on Ivan's face; the old cuts above his eyebrows and the misshapen nose. Ivan was no stranger to pugilism. All he needed was an excuse.

"I said I really like your gold chain. Very Eastern bloc mafia."

Ivan's hand went up to his chest, to the aforementioned chain, but then he caught the look on Draco's face and the cautious confusion due to his limited command of English turned into a sneer. "Shut up, weezard! I think you should not be so brave without wand, yes? You wait until we are on the sheep!"

Draco decided to let that one pass. Low hanging fruit, etcetera.

"Are there no wands on your vessel?" he inquired, wisely switching back to Russian.

It was the unnamed man who answered this time. "Yes. Mr Amarov's rules. We have many wizards…and witches," he added, with a level of smarminess that made Draco want to shove him off the dock. "But no wands. Magic does not rule our fleet, Alexander Amarov does," he finished, with chest-swelling pride.

"Magic always rules, my dull-witted Muggle friend," Draco said. "We've just been content to let you lot think you've been running the show all this while."

The man predictably raised a hand and Draco felt the familiar, welcomed flutter of adrenaline, along with a keenness and focus that only came when he wreaked violence. Or when he was on the cusp of a hard-earned breakthrough in his research. It was a strange mania that he had seen perfectly reflected in Hermione Granger's eyes.

"Your magic cannot help you now, freak!" The unnamed thug wasn't a terribly large man nor did he have terribly large hands, but the heavy gold watch he sported could probably do some damage.

"Igor!" snapped Honoria, who had finished making a phone call in the dilapidated shed beside the dock and had now joined her associates. She looked extremely troubled and Draco did not think it was due to Ivan's and Igor's fashion sense.

"Where is the boat?" Igor demanded. He tapped at his hideous watch.

In response, Honoria pointed to the water. A white luxury cruiser cleaved out of the darkness, stopping beside the dock. The pilot looked harried from having to navigate in such atrocious conditions.

"Quickly, before the storm comes!" he called out.

Draco was taken below deck, where he was pushed into a butter-soft, modular leather lounge and gruffly asked if he wanted anything to eat or drink. He declined. The thugs played with numerous remote controls and Ivan eventually whooped with delight when the correct button was accidentally pressed. An enormous, flat TV screen appeared from inside a recessed mahogany wall panel. Of course, there was nothing broadcasting from the commercial stations other than pre-recorded, emergency announcements, so the men selected music from a media center.

Ignoring the too-loud music and the cavorting bodyguards, Draco took his time taking proper stock of Honoria. Despite the whole scenario appearing to be something out of an Ian Fleming novel, Honoria Cloot was far from a typical Bond villainess. She was plain, almost mousy. Easy to overlook both physically and professionally in a house that contained such formidable women as the late Elizabeth Kent, Padma Patil and Hermione Granger. Everything about her was nondescript, which essentially made her an ideal spy. She was no Severus Snape, but she was capable. This was just as well because an incompetent spy was a dead spy.

Honoria rested her elbows on a breakfast bar, looking down pensively at her clasped hands. She was favouring her left leg, Draco noted. The injury had probably been earned from her brief scuffle with Potter.

Soon enough, she felt the weight of Draco's gaze. "You have questions, Death Eater," she stated, having to shout a little over the music. "Ask me."

He obliged her. "How long have you been working for Amarov?"

"Not questions about _me_," Honoria said, tiredly. "Ask about your new appointment."

"Very well. Amarov has the Kunlun Mountain Peach, doesn't he? Just as Longbottom's been saying?"

Honoria nodded. "Yes. And given that Agent Richards and Granger were planning to track down Amarov, it seemed like the right time for me to take my leave. Especially when it seems Amarov already has in his possession the very thing that may assist in creating a cure. It was serendipitous, you could say." She smiled. "He'll be pleased when I tell him."

"He has the Peach, but he has no idea what it can do?"

There it was again—she looked worried. "He hasn't been available for me to speak to recently, but he'll know soon enough."

"I gather Amarov has his own scientific team," Draco concluded. "Which means your mission was to infiltrate us and see how far we get with a cure. And sabotage the project if we came too close. Is that about right?"

Honoria was now drumming her fingers on the breakfast bar. "Suffice it to say that Amarov means to control the supply of the cure."

Draco snorted. He leaned back into the lounge and propped his right leg over his left knee. "You mean charge people for it."

She smiled in response. From the corner of his eye, Draco could see that Anatoli was watching and listening a little more intently that his comrades.

"And what if I fail?" Draco said. "There is no guarantee I'll do any better than Scrimgeour's team. Or Amarov's, for that matter."

Honoria went to a refrigerator and pulled out a chilled bottle of champagne. She uncorked it and then filled a pair of tall, crystal flutes that she retrieved from a soft-closing cabinet. "Of course you'll do better. Amarov isn't in the business of persuasion, Mr Malfoy. You'll give us all you have and I know you'll do that because as I've already promised, I will obliterate the Grimmauld Place operation and everyone who resides there if you don't. As soon as I told Amarov that Scrimgeour had you, Amarov decided he wanted D.R.A.C.O for _our_ cause. The cure will be _our_ invention. My latest priority has been to find the right kind of motivation for you to work with us." She walked across to the lounge and handed Draco a champagne flute. "You're a Death Eater," she told him, with a smirk. "I think you understand the importance of proper motivation."

"Finally." Draco exhaled with mock relief. "Someone who appreciates a good torture threat."

"Oh, but we're not talking about the threat of pain." She perched on the armrest at the other end of the lounge, as she sipped her champagne. "At least not _yours_. How curious that a Death Eater should be so concerned about the very people that helped to put him in prison. Or is it just the _one_ member of that team that makes you engage in all manner of foolish heroics?" Her fingers played with the stem of her champagne flute. "Do you know? If I had help, I might have brought Granger along with us as added insurance. What do you say to that?"

She attempted to outstare him, to goad him into responding, but Draco's gaze was unflinching. He sipped at his champagne very slowly, letting a full measure of cold, contained rage seep into his eyes. "This is very nice," he said, the simple words pregnant with malignancy. "Methusaleh?"

Honoria blinked. She looked away away abruptly and drank deeply from her own glass until there was nothing left. "We both wish. Perhaps Alexander will gift us with a bottle of Methusaleh when we've cracked the cure."

He regarded her with genuine curiosity now. "You're what…five or six year younger than me, at most? Which means we were at Hogwarts at the same time, weren't we?"

And it seemed that further unsettling Honoria was as easy as asking her about her schooling years. She set her flute down on the stone counter, too hard.

Draco set his own flute down on a coffee table, not making a sound. "What House did you belong to? Definitely not Slytherin. I don't remember you and I make a point of remembering."

A tight smile stretched across her face. "Perhaps for people like you, some details are not worth noticing."

Draco also smiled, but his was predatory. "Oh, this is just precious. You're Muggleborn aren't you? I think you are. All this—" he gestured to everything around them, "is because you felt slighted at school? What happened? Were you bullied? Did no one ask you to the Yule Ball?" His eyes narrowed. "Was it a case of unrequited love with a Magicborn?"

"_Ivan_," Honoria hissed. And apparently that was all she needed to say.

He moved quickly for so large a man, but Draco had been expecting it. Ivan reached down to haul him from his seat by the front of his t-shirt, but Draco used his lower position to his advantage. He made a pointed fist and drove two knuckles into the front of Ivan's throat. The man's eyes bulged as his grabbed at his neck with both hands, making desperate, wheezing noises. With his abdomen now exposed, Draco punched him hard and then, as an afterthought, picked up his champagne flute before Ivan careened backwards into the coffee table, which promptly collapsed under his weight.

Igor had predictably brandished a handgun by now, but Draco was well aware that no one was going to shoot him. And a gun was only as threatening as its owner's willingness to utilise it. Honoria did not look concerned as much as resigned. She began shouting at Anatoli to help Ivan up from the wreckage of the coffee table, but paused when the obnoxious music abruptly stopped. There was a short, sharp crackle of static and then the pilot's relieved voice sounded over the intercom system.

"We're here."

Still holding his champagne flute, Draco was unceremoniously shoved up unto the deck by Igor. Ivan had one arm looped around Anatoli's shoulders, staring daggers at Draco. Honoria stood beside Draco as the pilot manoeuvred the cruiser alongside the hull of a larger ship. The ocean ought to have been a blanket of darkness, but it was ablaze with the twinkling lights from what looked like a stationary armada.

Honoria openly savoured the look on Draco's face. She plucked the flute from his unresisting grip and drained its contents.

"How many ships in the fleet?" he whispered.

"Sixteen, and that's not including the three hundred smaller vessels that sail with us. We have five ULCC super tankers laden with enough oil to make an Arabian sheikh have a seizure. Two cargo vessels, one decommissioned battleship and the rest are ocean liners. This one, however…" she looked up affectionately at the enormous cruise liner they were about to board, "is _home_. This is where you will work."

"Safe from the Infection," Draco said, staring at the other vessels in the distance—Alexander Amarov's floating city.

Honoria nodded. "Men have sold their own children for a ticket."

There was purposeful shouting coming from the cruise liner now. The smaller vessel's engine cut off. Igor and Anatoli began to carry crates from where they had been stored below deck. Draco recognised the box of data and research he'd been ordered to take from Grimmauld Place.

He turned to Honoria now. "That's the kind of company Amarov prefers to keep? I'd watch my back if I were him."

There was a flicker of..._something_ in her eyes. Not fear, not quite. "Mr Malfoy, granted you are a dangerous man to keep, but you haven't met anyone quite like Alexander Amarov," she said, with a brittle smile.

"I've yet to meet anyone who still manages to surprise me," Draco said.

"That's not entirely true. Hermione surprised you, didn't she?" Honoria asked, as they walked across the gang plank that extended from the cruiser into the belly of the cruise liner.

If she intended to push for a response, the opportunity was lost in the commotion of boarding. They walked through dark, plush-carpeted corridors that smelled of fresh paint, brass polish, carpet shampoo and in some areas, cigarette smoke. Eventually, they stopped in a glitzy foyer with a curving, twin-branched staircase and an enormous chandelier. When there was enough light to actually see the interior, everything was awash in gold and plum, across embossed wall paper and velvets and brocade upholstery. It was eerily silent on the ship. Amarov seemed to like his space.

"This is where we part ways, Mr Malfoy," Honoria said to him. She was still holding his champagne flute. "Desmond will see to your needs." She gave him a weary salute before disappearing at the top of the staircase.

An elderly, grey-haired man emerged from a dark corridor. He was dressed in a pinstripe suit that was as subtly elegant as Ivan's had been screamingly tacky. _Desmond_, Draco assumed. Desmond carried a tablet device under his arm and a silver whistle around his neck, oddly.

The old man bowed in greeting, reminding Draco of Professor Yoshida. His cloudy blue eyes catalogued the map of blood stains on Draco's clothing and then he said, with a voice as gentle as turning page. "If you require anything, you have only to ask and I will see that you get it."

Sometimes, the truth was the best joke you could tell. And Draco has always been a fan of dark humour. "I'd very much like a wand right now, Desmond."

The man smiled. "Alas, that is the one thing I am forbidden to acquire for you. However, let us start with quarters, shall we? And then a warm bath, food and a great deal of sleep. A tour of the facilities can wait until tomorrow. Pardon my bluntness, young man, but you look like a stiff breeze could crumple you right now."

"It's been an inordinately long day, Desmond."

"They are all long days, these days. Please, follow me."

Draco followed. The evening's earlier fight and flight gave way to bone-deep exhaustion. Perhaps it was an acceptance of current inevitabilities. Or perhaps it was just Desmond's contagious quiescence. It occurred to Draco that if he blinked for too long, it was probably possible for him to fall asleep in mid-step. It didn't help that he'd had too much to drink with Hermione in the labs, right before the whole mess had begun.

One storey up was Draco's assigned stateroom. Keeping in theme with everything else Draco had seen that evening, the quarters were opulent and enormous. There was even a conservatory; modern and oddly minimalistic compared to the baroque splendour of the rest of the room. Desmond indicated a walk-in closet with a pile of folded clothing on a burgundy velvet settee. Most of the clothes were dark-coloured and therefore, agreeable.

"I will have a meal sent," Desmond announced.

Draco stood beside the king-sized bed and watched as Desmond ignored the whirlpool tub that was recessed beside panoramic windows. He turned on the taps in the hexagonal, white marble shower instead. Steam billowed from the bathroom.

"Not a bath, but a shower tonight, I think." Again, Desmond took note of the blood splatters across Draco's clothing. "To wash away the day's toils, as they say."

Draco stiffly sat on the edge of the bed and began unlacing his combat boots. His hands were stained with dried blood—Ronald Weasley's blood. He flexed his right hand momentarily, feeling the tightness of the caked blood, which fell off in flecks. "Not all toils wash off, Desmond."

"No, they don't," the butler agreed, "but I believe it's the ritual that counts. Now, is there anything else I can do for you before I bid you goodnight, Mr Malfoy?"

"When do I speak to Amarov?"

"You don't," Desmond said, dispassionately. "Alexander Amarov has been missing for two days. We have no idea where he is."

Draco paused with his left boot in his hand. "All that effort to bring me here and the man's been bloody kidnapped?"

'I'm afraid so. It is fortuitous that Miss Cloot has returned to us. Things have gone quite awry, I'm afraid."

Draco had a variety of questions (and sub-questions, with bullet point offshoots and possibly a diagram or two) but did not trust that he had the mental stamina to ask them correctly. It would all have to wait.

"Good night, Desmond."

Again, the same low nod, and then the old man left. And if Draco was not mistaken, the click and scrape he heard beyond the doors meant that the stateroom was a luxurious prison nonetheless. That was fine. Draco knew how to be in a luxurious prison. He'd had most of his life to practice.

He peeled off his clothing, dropping them piece by piece on the floor as he walked to the shower. More than just clothing was stripped away. The water pressure was strong. Draco hung his head low, letting the water cascade down his neck and back. He shut his eyes as he placed his forehead against the cool marble of the shower wall. He took in a long, shuddering breath, before drawing back his arm and ramming his fist into the marble. The wall escaped unscathed, but the thin skin over his knuckles split open. There he remained, until he was sure that the blood stains—old and new—were gone; that the water no longer swirled red around his feet


	17. Light the Pyres

**Author's Notes:**

Huge delay since my last update, so here is a long chapter to make up for it. No D/Hr interaction yet. Thank you for the reviews. I greatly appreciate them!

* * *

Richards and Scrimgeour stood before the fireplace in Scrimgeour's office. The Floo transmission came through on time, despite some earlier problems establishing a connection on the heavily regulated US channel. Presently, a man's face appeared. There were no salutations, merely instructions.

"Secretary Beaumont will be with you momentarily. Please wait."

There were voices, the sound of a door closing and then a new face; a statuesque black woman with short, steel grey hair. Her eyes were a sharp gold, a perfect match for the brooch that adorned her cream, Chanel camellia suit.

"Rufus," she said, her feline gaze cutting directly to the Minister. "It's been a while."

Scrimgeour nodded in greeting. "Hello, Rebecca."

The manner of the exchange and the unique tension that sprung up between the pair caused Richards to give the Minister a curious, side-ways glance.

"I wish we were speaking under more pleasant circumstances," Beaumont continued, "but it seems that Project Christmas is in a bit of pickle."

Scrimgeour sighed. "An understatement, I assure you. You've received my brief and are aware of our situation?"

"You want to extend the deadline," she concluded.

"Yes," Scrimgeour said. "Of all the many risks we considered when we commenced Project Christmas, sabotage from a competitor was—"

"Unforseen," Beaumont supplied. "There isn't a corner of the world that hasn't been touched by the Infection. It seems unthinkable that anyone would want to thwart the race for a cure. My Office receives daily Owls from constituents, asking how close your team is to finding a cure. People have moved well beyond mere desperation." She looked at her agent now. "Richards, have you discovered anything more about this saboteur?"

"Not very much that is different to what we already knew," the Cowboy replied. "Honoria Cloot is a Hogwarts graduate who went on to Salem to specialise in Mediwizadry, graduating with Distinction. She's well-travelled and came with excellent professional references."

Beaumont slipped on a pair of frameless spectacles. She was handed a report by the assistant who had appeared earlier, and was now flipping through flagged pages. "No family?" She looked up. "It says here she's an orphan."

"Her parents were killed by Death Eaters in Voldemort's Second Coming when she was ten," Richards confirmed. "That unfortunate fact was to her advantage when we were assessing applications for the mission."

"So why does a promising young Mediwitch decide to blow up one of your specimens, destroy your equipment and directly or indirectly kill three of her own team?"

"That's just it, Madam Secretary," Richards said. "I don't think we were really _her_ team to begin with. She abducted Draco Malfoy and took our data with her. Therefore we suspect there is another team out there who wants to create the cure _first_."

"Abducted?" Rebecca Beaumont frowned. "Refresh my memory, gentleman. Weren't you extorting Draco Malfoy? The reasonable assumption is that Cloot made him a better offer. I was under the impression given the details of the altercation between Malfoy and Harry Potter in particular, that Malfoy left willingly."

Richards and Scrimgeour exchanged a look. It was Richards who answered his boss. "Actually, it was Harry Potter who thought to raise an alternate theory with us. The Minister and I have interviewed the rest of the team and discussed this theory at length, of course."

"Oh?" Beaumont said. She removed her spectacles. "Enlighten me."

Scrimgeour explained. "We speculate that Draco Malfoy may have developed an attachment to our project, if not an allegiance to it."

"I see," said Beaumont. "If that's true, then the loss of Malfoy is a pity. Though, I'm struggling to understand why it matters who develops a cure first, so long as it is developed at all!"

"I suspect this competitor wants to sell it," Scrimgeour said. "Rebecca, the Infection may have brought most of the civilised world to its knees, but there are some who would profit from it; who see it as a business opportunity."

"Who?" she asked, sharply.

"We don't know," Richards admitted. He sounded immensely weary. "The fact is that all our usual intelligence networks are crippled. We have bits and pieces coming in. Rumours. Nothing conclusive."

Beaumont considered the idea. "I suppose it doesn't take a great leap of imagination to consider what an enterprising soul could do with a cure to the Infection. It's a heinous thought. I don't like it."

"Indeed," said Scrimgeour. "Nations would pay anything, barter anything. Borders could be re-drawn for the powers that hold the cure. The world is at a standstill right now. The clock has stopped and whoever has the cure has the means to re-start it again."

"Then, gentleman, it really is a race to create a cure that is available to all, not just to those few who can pay," Beaumont said. "It saddens me to tell you, Rufus, that none of our own in-house teams were as close as Project Christmas. My people were quite literally in tears when we told them of the attack on Grimmauld Place."

Scrimgeour's voice was low and soft when he next spoke, "Then you will you give us the additional time we need? The December deadline is… unworkable."

"I'm afraid I cannot."

The Cowboy made to speak, but Scrimgeour got there first. "Why?" asked the Minister.

"Because my hands a tied by my superiors. Because the West is being overrun," Rebecca Beaumont said, her voice heavy with regret. "Other countries have had some success in containing their outbreaks, but that feat continues to elude us in the developed world, despite our greater resources."

Scrimgeour contemplated this for a moment. "You are concerned about the balance of power shifting away from those who currently still have it. Or are _seen_ to have it."

Beaumont did not reply. She didn't need to.

Richards swore. "So you're going to wipe entire sections of Britain off the map to show you mean business? Madam Secretary, with due respect, that's _fucked up._"

"The outbreak passed beyond the limits of control three months ago, Agent Richards," Beaumont said, and her tone hard now. "The Infection strain currently running rampant in the United Kingdom is the oldest and is mutating far beyond what we've seen outside your borders. Scrimgeour _knows _this. This is why we've agreed for you to set up a base of operations in London, to be onsite to monitor the spread of the Infection. We can't waiver from that deadline and I hasten to add that the Wizarding Senate has the Minister's word and signature on the Project Christmas agreement. You deliver a cure or we deliver a solution." She was looking at Scrimgeour now. "Do you remember this?"

"Yes," Scrimgeour said.

"It's not a solution," Richards protested. "It's a death sentence for thousands of survivors!" He glared to the Minister. "Tell her!"

"We need more equipment," Scrimgeour said, instead. "Are you going to provide assistance in that area?

"Yes," said Beaumont. "And we will send you the terabytes of new data that our teams have accumulated. Hopefully that will assist in the rebuilding of your lab." Beaumont addressed a seething Agent Richards now. He was content to scowl at the floor, so she waited until he was looking at her again. "I have some good news if you want it, Richards," she said, more gently now.

The Cowboy's head rose. He sighed. "Always, Boss."

"We have located Alexander Amarov for you. The good news is that he's not far from London. The bad news is that approximately one week ago, he was kidnapped and is now being ransomed."

Richards was openly baffled. "That's ridiculous. Money is useless right now."

"Nevertheless, he is still being held captive," Beaumont said. "Amarov controls a fleet of ships. He is in possession of vast reserves of oil that he has rather cleverly kept on the move and away from the mainland. It might be the oil that these kidnappers are ransoming. There are organised criminal factions in Western and Eastern Europe who feel he should share some of this wealth. All the money and gold in the world is not going to fuel a car or a plane. People readily go to war over fuel without the threat of zombies. It's certainly no better now."

"Madness," Scrimgeour said.

"It's a breakdown of all civil and martial law," Beaumont responded. "This, as it happens, will make it much easier to use whatever force you feel is necessary to rescue Mr Amarov."

"Us?" Scrimgeour asked, incredulous. "You want me to lead a team of scientists, doctors and nurses on a mission to extract Amarov?"

Beaumont nodded. "I am not permitted to remove any more agents from their current posts here or overseas. The truth is, we have none to spare. Therefore, the Senate is giving you the authority to use lethal magical force, if required. It feels unseemly for me to state the obvious, but in these types of situations, wands do tend to prevail when no limits are placed as to their usage with respect to Muggles."

"No doubt, but we will be breaking a few dozen international wizarding conventions if we aggress upon any Muggle association, wartime or not," Scrimgeour pointed out. "These rules are a thousand years old, Rebecca. They are there for a reason."

"Let me handle the paperwork," Beaumont said, with a sigh. "Just find Amarov. Obtain his assistance regarding this artefact you say you need and resume work on the cure. Keep me posted if you require anything specific for the extraction. I have every faith in Agent Richard's tactical expertise. My Office will be in touch shortly to provide you with Amarov's location. Now, if that is all, gentleman," she glanced down at her wristwatch, "I have already exceeded my Floo allowance." Beaumont gave them a small smile. "Good luck."

The Floo connection terminated.

Richards and the Minister stood in silence for a moment, until Scrimgeour spoke. He sounded weary. "You wish to ask me something. Ask and be done with it."

The Cowboy grunted. "You and old Battleship Beaumont, eh?"

"It was a very long time ago. I trust 'Battleship Beaumont' has no idea her agents refer to her by that atrocious name?"

Richards managed a short, sharp laugh. "I think she probably started the nickname herself." He checked his watch as Scrimgeour went to fetch more Floo powder from the urn above the fireplace. "What time does it start?" Richards asked.

"In five minutes. It's best we leave immediately."

The Cowboy was in agreement. Everyone else had already travelled to Taransay earlier.

It was poor form to be late for a funeral.

* * *

There are many types of silences—uncomfortable ones, heavy ones, expectant ones—but the one that presided over the large group at Taransay Island was decidedly a _noisy_ one. The weather was foul. In the midst of the storm, no one spoke, which was probably just as well because they were unlikely to be heard above the howl of the wind. There were plenty of meaningful glances exchanged between Weasley family members and friends, looks of shared sympathy, sorrow, confusion and pain. And there was shock and anger too, despite Ron's Infection being common knowledge. The circumstances surrounding this death were as startling as they were tragic.

They waited first for the Cowboy to arrive. He did, with the Minister. Both men walked up the hill, met halfway by Neville Longbottom who held a large, black umbrella over their heads. It didn't make much difference. The rain was coming down sideways. They joined the congregation under the wildly flapping black marquee. An outdoor congregation seemed an ill-conceived idea, given the storm, but there was to be funeral pyres in the old Wizarding custom, and custom dictated that the parting words had to be spoken where the bodies would be consecrated to the elements.

Richards spoke briefly and kindly of Elizabeth Kent, whom he declared the most promising young agent he had ever had the pleasure of mentoring. He told of how she was the child of blue-collared immigrant Magical parents, who had worked long and hard to ensure that all their children received the best education. Kent had been a dedicated supporter of the principles of the US Wizarding Senate and an exceptional agent. At the eulogy's conclusion, the floor was relinquishing to the Minister for Magic.

Scrimgeour frowned down at his clasped hand for a moment, before raising his head and addressing the congregation in a voice that was carried by Sonorous.

"Mira Khan, Jason Lam, Emily Finch, Elizabeth Kent and Ronald Weasley have left us," he said.

From within the congregation, supported by Ginny Weasley, Molly Wealsey openly sobbed. Scrimgeour's eyes met Molly's and as difficult as it must have been, he held her gaze as he continued. "They are gone, but not forgotten. Never forgotten, for the gifts that they have given us will be cherished and remembered."

He turned his gaze to the Muggle refugees who had chosen to attend the funeral, addressing them now. "It is customary for Wizarding folk to speak of death in terms of the gifts the deceased have imparted unto us. The gifts of these brave young people have been many-fold—their love and friendship, their loyalty and their unique talents. They have helped to take us closer to a cure that will benefit millions. To our great sorrow, they have left us. But they have not died in vain. We will see to that by remembering them and by honouring their sacrifice."

The crowd parted under the marquee and Harry came forward, Hermione walking behind him. He suddenly stopped short. She turned him around and spoke to him. He nodded with his eyes closed. Presently, he straightened up, took in a long breath and continued onwards to where Scrimgeour and Richards waited to shelter him under the enormous, black umbrella. Fortunately, the wind had calmed down enough for Harry to address the congregation without the aid of Sonorous now.

"I was asked to say something about Ron,"' Harry said, his hand scrubbing absently at the back of his messy head. Only I've never been good with words and this time I can't copy off Hermione." He looked at the crowd, _into_ the crowd and saw that more than a few were smiling at him in encouragement. "What can I say about Ron? Well, there's loads. The first time I saw Ron, I felt more alone than I'd ever felt in my life. Even more alone than I'd been with my Muggle aunt and uncle, the Dursleys. You see, shortly before I got my Hogwarts letter, I had the benefit of knowing exactly what I was—a small, slightly underfed, very ordinary eleven-year old boy with bad eyesight." He paused to push his spectacles higher up his nose.

"I had a bit of a rough time with the Dursleys," Harry said, looking at the ground. Molly Weasley gave a small sob at this point and Ginny tightened her hold around her mother's shoulder. "And when that happens, you find yourself feeling helpless and angry, and then you think maybe you're actually quite special, only no one can see it yet. You think maybe you'll become a big success one day and they'll look at you differently. More admiration, less loathing." Harry sighed and then smiled wryly. "And then…and then well I got my letter, didn't I?" He looked up at the congregation now. "I held it in my hand, read it out loud in front of Hagrid and it was undeniable proof that I was something 'other'. Not ordinary at all. Only it wasn't a huge relief. Quite frankly, it was terrifying. I no longer knew who or what I was.

"A short while later, I slid open that compartment door on the Hogwarts express and there was Ron. He didn't treat me like Harry Potter or a freak that didn't quite belong to the Muggle world or the Magical one. He treated me like a kid who had walked into his compartment and who seemed just as nervous as he was." Harry's voice was stronger now, almost challenging. "Ron may have come from one of the most loving and close families I have ever met, but that didn't mean he had it easy. "It's hard coming from a prominent family in the fight. Its hard coming from a magical background and having two of your best friends come from the Muggle world. You see, we're all the heroes of our own stories, children especially. But Ron…well Ron was the hero's best friend from Day One, whether he wanted to be or not, whether I wanted him to be or not. He had no choice in the matter. He was the sidekick and the support crew. And that can be a hard pill for any child to swallow. But _he_ did. Ron did, with loyalty and integrity.

"The great thing about Ron was that he was always himself. He was authentic. Now, I can't speak for Hermione," Harry said, as he looked at her, "but I haven't always been…myself. I still feel like I'm floundering around in someone else's shoes and they're always too big. I've never met someone who was so true to themselves even when that may have meant acting like a git on occasion." This garnered a few, quiet chuckles from the crowd. "He was brave," said Harry, nodding. "Incredibly brave, even as an eleven-year old boy trapped in a life-sized game of Wizard's Chess, where he would have _died_ for me." His voice wavered and his gaze found Hermione's again. "For us".

"The day he was bitten, he was very matter of fact about it. The first thing he said to me was, 'Sorry, mate.' OK, well maybe not the _first_ thing. There was quite a bit of swearing before the apology. He was sorry because he thought he'd been taken out of the game and he'd previously promised that was something he would never do to me again. But this time…_this_ time, it was out of his control.

"So these are the things I have to say about Ron. As our Minister said, the custom of wizards and witches is to speak of our departed loved ones in terms of the gifts they have given us. Ron's loyalty, honesty and steadfastness have been his gifts to us. But there are other, more selfish things I want to tell you. It's just that I can't find the vocabulary because they don't have much to do with words. I don't know how to tell you how much he meant to me and Hermione and to his family and friends, how much I'm going to miss him and how sorry I am that he will never get to see his first grey hairs or his children or grandkids, or have someone offer up their seat to him on the bus. If Ron were here now, he'd crack a joke about how shite I look when I cry and he'd smile and tell me that everything will work out." Harry was silent for a moment, he opened his mouth and then closed it, unsure of how to continue.

George Wealsey assisted, in a voice that sounded like it'd been attacked with sandpaper. "Blimey. He was right, Harry—you do look awful when you cry."

Harry wiped his face on his shirtsleeve and laughed. "Shut up, George."

Scrimgeour, assisted by Neville, stepped forward to light fires that would burn even in the rain. There were only three pyres, for they had not recovered the bodies of Mira and Jason.

It was over. Richards gave instructions for everyone to return to the encampment for hot tea and sandwiches. Well wishes and condolences were given and received. Hermione stood to the side, waiting until Harry had embraced each of the Weasleys, before she stepped forward with an umbrella to walk with him down the hill.

"It was OK, then?" Harry asked.

She linked her arm through his as they made their way along slippery, wet grass. "Merlin, yes. Even some of the more hard-lined Muggle were looking a bit watery, and _not_ from the rain, mind you."

"I still think you should have done the eulogy."

"No." Hermione shook her head. "It had to be you."

"I was clunky," he admitted.

"Sometimes clunky is what we need to hear."

Harry was watching her closely now. "What now?"

Hermione pulled out a tissue from her coat pocket and blew her nose noisily. The tissue was unfortunately soaked before it even reached her nose. "Now we get back to work."

He stopped. So did Hermione, who had walked on several steps ahead with the umbrella. Harry stood in the rain and stared at her. "How do you do it?" he asked, and there was an edge to his voice.

"Do what?"

"How do you not break like the rest of us? I shudder to think what it would take for you stop being…like this. It would have to be no less than the end of the world, I assume."

"Being like _what_?" she demanded.

He couldn't say it, but she read his expression and guessed. "Cold? Is that what you want to say? Unfeeling? Uncaring? Is that it?"

Harry was silent.

She marched up to him, sheltering them both under the umbrella once more. "Are you saying I don't feel this? That I don't feel like my heart's been ripped out of my chest ? Tell me I don't feel like that and I swear, Harry, I will punch you in the face!"

He looked away, unwilling to meet her eyes. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'm sorry."

"You should be," she spat. "I'm hurting just as you are. But we don't have the luxury of losing our momentum. Otherwise Mira, Jason, Emily, Agent Kent and Ron really would have died for nothing! Now, are we done here or was there anything else you wanted to say to me?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact. You haven't mentioned Malfoy once since Ron died."

Hermione blinked at the change in topic. She ran the back of her hand across her face, wiping away the rain. "There is nothing to say."

"Really? We didn't just lose Emily, Kent and Ron the day Honoria betrayed us. We lost Malfoy as well. You seem keen to erase the last couple of months from your memory."

"The last couple of months where he waited for the perfect opportunity to leave!" Hermione pointed out. "And I don't recall the two of you being the best of friends."

"Despite my not liking him and despite everything that happened in the lab that night, I don't think he wanted to leave. Padma doesn't think so either. Just ask her! If he—Hermione, where are you going?"

She had shoved the umbrella handle into his hands and was walking away. "I'm going to get dry!"

"Why won't you consider that he was forced to leave?" Harry shouted.

She whirled around, her eyes blazing, tendrils of wet hair clinging to the sides of her face. "Because I cannot handle any more hurt, Harry. Not one bit more. This—" she slapped her hand across her heart, the wet fabric of her black robes making a smacking noise "—is all used up. I am balancing on a razor's edge of control right now and I cannot allow myself to think that Malfoy was taken against his will because if he was…" her voice broke, "we don't have a way or the time to find him and get him back. I just…I can't. He left. He _left_, Harry. Just leave it." She walked away.

Silently, Harry followed, unsettled to discover the depths of Hermione's focus on the mission and the fact that there actually was something that threatened to destroy her focus.

And it had not been Ronald Weasley.

* * *

Draco slept for nine hours.

A minor miracle considering he was in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar, hostile people. Not that Desmond could be called hostile. The butler was professional, courteous and seemingly unperturbed by the fact that his employer was the Floating Despot of the North Atlantic. Desmond was a living, breathing case of pragmatism in action. The fact was that sometimes things like allegiance, honour, loyalty and the ever annoying battle-cry of high-minded, integrous people everywhere—"It's the principle of the thing!"—would not save you when catastrophe came knocking.

Adaptability was what you needed. In an emergency, that was what delineated the real survivors from the panicked, confused, masses. And _that_ was what Draco liked about science. Science evolved and adapted when presented with new evidence; new situations that called for reassessment of old ways of thinking and doing things.

He had come to science rather late, but when he arrived, it felt like a seat had been left just for him. Lucius, contrary to popular belief, had not been in a state of crippling fear and distrust of the Muggle world. No. Rather, he'd been in a state of _wariness_. He was not xenophobic in the definitive sense. Oh, Lucius detested Muggles and the blood-pollution they brought with them, but he was not so myopic as to remain wilfully ignorant of their overwhelming numbers, their progress and their achievements. To deny humanity's ingenuity was folly and Lucius had not been a foolish man. He determined that it was always a good idea to know as much as possible about one's enemies. And so the books (and papers and more papers and eventually a computer) arrived at Malfoy Manor. A tutor was located—a small, nervous mouse of a man whose job was to render Draco as knowledgeable as possible in all things Muggle. The tutoring was to be kept a secret. It was a dangerous secret. Not even Narcissa was to know. Lucius understood that the purposeful exposure of his only child to the Muggle world would not be viewed kindly by their contemporaries.

Or by the Dark Lord, for that matter.

It had been a hard task not just because of that, but because Draco had initially refused the learning. For a young Draco, the world was black and white. It was Us and Them and Us was better, wasn't it? Us was pure and noble and worthy. Why did he need to know about Them? He'd stormed into his father's study one sticky summer afternoon, cross and irritable from having to sit in the library with his tutor to learn about the wretched Muggles.

"Why do I have spies in the Ministry?' Lucius had countered, bluntly.

Draco had been twelve at the time. He'd looked at his father—imposing, intent and very serious. The answer had long since been drilled into his head.

_Scientia potentia est. _

Knowledge is power. All of it, even the stuff you didn't think merited a second's worth of consideration. Not all knowledge ranked equally in terms of utility, of course, but that didn't mean it was useless. Science was useful. And what made Draco even more conflicted once he'd accepted the lessons was that he found science nothing short of mesmerising. It wasn't a complete surprise; he had already proven to be a natural scholar, but what he had went beyond mere aptitude. It was an affinity.

One morning, his tutor brought _On the Origin of Species_ for Draco to read and if he'd harboured a mild infatuation with Muggle science before then, it quickly progressed to a full-blown romance. He came to realise that it wasn't about the perceived quality of your blood that mattered. Nor was it about strength, although that trait would see you see you well through a disaster. It wasn't about the survival of the fittest, it was always about _adaptability_. When he realised this, he began to recognise that prized trait—the antithesis of the Pureblood philosophy—everywhere he looked. And to his shock and disgust, he recognised it most of all in the Muggleborns and mixed-bloods that walked the halls of Hogwarts.

And he despised them ever more for it.

Draco was awake a good minute before he opened his eyes. Desmond had come into the dark room and flicked a switch, silently retracting the shades from the spotless, curving windows. Sharp, clean sunlight filled the room. Outside, the ocean was calm. Desmond stood at the foot of the bed, holding a silver tray laden with food. At the doorway was one of the guards from the night before—Anatoli. He was unmistakably the least brutish of his companions. Presumably he was there to provide Desmond with assistance if Draco proved to be uncooperative. He stood with folded arms and a rigid, constipated expression.

"Good morning, sir," Desmond said. He sat the tray down on a bedside table and then stood with his arms clasped behind his back. "Your breakfast. I have your itinerary for today, when you are ready to receive it."

Draco pushed hair out of his eyes and sat up against the headboard. He was naked under the covers. As the crisp, white sheet slipped down to his stomach, Desmond's gaze was drawn to the latticework of scars across Draco's abdomen. There it was—damnable pity mingling with curiosity. Most people reacted similarly. Except Granger, of course. She excelled at being the exception. Nothing was simple about that woman. When she had seen his scars for the first time, there was the usual pity and curiosity, but there was also fascination that bordered on morbid. He couldn't be sure, but he suspected Granger wondered what it had taken for him to be brought so low and made so vulnerable that he'd been at the mercy of the rogue Aurors who had tortured him. What she knew about him, which wasn't very much to begin with, was old and out of date. As such, he intrigued her.

_It's a powerful curiosity you have, Granger..._

"Sir." Desmond interrupted his thoughts. He was holding out a dressing gown. Draco accepted it and then went to the toilet to relieve himself. He splashed water on his face and assessed his reflection. His hair had grown considerably since his release from prison, almost as if in celebration from being free of the automated grooming spells of his Azkaban cell. After six years of having it closely cropped, it was odd seeing his fringe reach his eyes. He needed a shave, but not surprisingly, a razor was not to be found on the marble bathroom counter or in the cabinets and drawers below. He suspected Desmond would be required to do the honours or Draco would simply have to earn the trust of his captors before being permitted any shaving implements. There was a toothbrush, however, which he made good use of. The knuckles of his left hand were a swollen mess, but they would heal. He walked to the closet. A quick rifle through the drawers of a sleek cabinet revealed underwear—dark, like the rest of the available clothing. He spoke to Desmond as he dressed.

"So what's on the agenda today?"

"After breakfast, Anatoli will take you across to our medical research vessel for a tour of the facilities. There, you will meet the team working on a cure for this plague."

Draco selected a pair of charcoal trousers in his size, pulling them on. "Will Honoria be joining us?"

"Miss Cloot is occupied this morning with plans to recover Mr Amarov from his kidnappers. She is most concerned that he has not already been returned."

"But they want something for him, don't they? What is the ransom?"

"What they all want, oil."

"The one thing that moves Muggle civilisation," Draco noted, "literally.

"Indeed," Desmond agreed. "Without oil, there is no travel. Without travel, there is no escape or assistance."

A long-sleeved cotton t-shirt came next, and then a cable-knit jumper in black. It was sunny outside, but they were on the ocean in autumn. It was best to dress warmly. The shoe rack produced two pairs of lace-up, leather loafers, though only one was in his size. A pair of olive green hiking boots was also in his size, but he settled for leather ankle boots instead, pulling them on over black cashmere socks. "And Miss Cloot is going to give it to them in return for Amarov's safe return?" Draco asked, as he shut the closet door behind him.

"No sir, she is not. Given our resources, you can imagine that this fleet has received its fair share of threats and attacks. Mr Amarov planned for such eventualities. He had a failsafe engineered."

"And what is this failsafe?" Draco asked.

Desmond hesitated. "Perhaps it's best if one of our research team explains the fine details to you."

Draco persisted. "You don't know the fine details?"

The old butler nodded.

"That's fortuitous, Desmond," Draco said, with more coolness in his voice, "because I don't need fine details. The gist will do."

Desmond sighed. "Mr Amarov has a device fitted to him that constantly monitors his vital signs. In the event he is harmed, killed or is taken farther than a set distance away from the fleet, the device transmits a signal, causing a mass detonation of numerous explosives which will destroy the fleet."

It was properly horrific, of course, and a testament to Alexander Amarov's sense of self-importance that he would risk the lives of everyone in his fleet in such a way. But Draco was impressed, nevertheless.

"So Amarov has a biofeedback mechanism surgically embedded inside him which is designed to trigger a series of detonations in the fleet if he's taken or hurt. If it's set to go off outside a set perimeter that implies he can't be too far away from the fleet and the fleet cannot leave without him?"

"Correct," said Desmond.

"Which vessels have been rigged?"

"All of them, except for our smaller perimeter ships and the cruisers. The failsafe has been integrated into computerised navigation systems where such systems exist on a vessel. In the event of tampering, removal or unauthorised course change, the bombs will explode and the oil will be lost. Mr Amarov deemed it the most likely way to deter attackers, seeing as we will happily trade our resources. But we will not tolerate theft."

"So what happens if he falls dead from a heart attack? Or if he gets a little too excited with his girlfriend?" Draco asked. "What, then? Boom?"

Desmond's expression indicated that this was by no means an unconsidered risk. From the doorway, Draco could feel Anatoli's rapt attention, or maybe a better word was _tension_. This was clearly an unfavourable topic. "Suffice it to say that we take great pains to make sure Mr Amarov is well looked after," Desmond said.

"A billionaire megalomaniac who is treated like the sodding last emperor." Draco ran a hand through his hair. "What else? A gladiatorial arena?"

There was something in Desmond's expression that made Draco stop and stare at him. "You _can't_ be serious?"

"You will see for yourself soon enough, Mr Malfoy. Now, if you please?" he gestured to the tray of breakfast. "Your eggs are getting cold."

* * *

**Additional Author's Notes:**

In the interest of full disclosure, the biofeedback mechanism described here is similar to the one used by MaMa in Dredd (2012), which I only saw after I decided to use it for my story.


	18. Rules

**Author's Notes:**

We're getting into the thick of it now, so the appropriate warnings for this genre apply. From the reviews, I'm aware that many of you admit to reading this story outside your usual comfort zone/preferred genre, so please be advised that this chapter contains horror, violence and children (as will the next one).

No Hermione until the next chapter, and no _Draco and Hermione_ until probably two or three chapters from now. In the meantime, this one's ALL Draco. There is light at the end of this admittedly long tunnel, so hang in there!

On a technical note, the spacing after italicized words isn't really working.

* * *

The eggs were indeed cold by the time he got to them, but lately Draco tended to treat meals as more of re-fuelling exercise rather than something to consciously savour. Admittedly, there was good sourdough, toasted lightly, and black coffee which was unfortunately sweetened. He glanced around the tray for milk.

"If you're looking for the cream, I'm afraid we have none at the moment," said the ever attentive Desmond. He actually managed to sound cheerful about this.

Draco tore a slice of bread in half. "No dairy cows in the fleet that has everything?" he asked, before taking a bite.

"No dairy cows," Desmond confirmed. "Managing livestock is problematic. Plenty of chickens, though," he added, inclining his head to the scrambled eggs.

As the meal was consumed, Desmond continued to hover beside him. Anatoli stood by the door, arms folded. Draco drank the remainder of the coffee and set down the empty cup back on the tray. To say he felt restored was putting it mildly.

"Thank you, Desmond. That was much needed."

"When was the last time you ate?" inquired the butler.

Draco thought back.

Brandy and coffee in a chipped mug.

That had been the last thing he'd consumed at Grimmauld Place. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell the brandy, feel the cool weight of the mug and…and Hermione Granger leaning over him as she stared at the computer screen, her long hair escaping from a twelve-hour old ponytail, stray curls tickling his face as she frowned down at outputs from their Re-Gen effects modelling. She was not a creature of large habits, at least beyond her formidable work ethic, but she had many small ones—worrying her lower lip with her teeth, tapping her nail-bitten index finger against her desk or keyboard when she concentrated, and the way she absolutely _beamed_ like she was lit from within on the rare occasions she had good news to report. Her ability to be that excited could make a person feel rather old and jaded...

"Sir?" Desmond prodded.

"A while back," Draco belatedly replied.

He dusted crumbs off his trousers and stood up. Now that he was rested and fed, it was time to run the numbers, so to speak. It was an old habit acquired from seven years of attending a boarding school full of dark corners where ninety-five percent of the student population wanted to throw you down the stairs. When you grew up surrounded by that knowledge, you worked out where the exits were real quick. Desmond the efficient and sympathetic octogenarian was not a deterrent against escape and certainly no threat. That left the guard—Anatoli. At full height, Draco was as tall as the man, though nowhere near as wide. But what Draco lacked in bulk, he probably made up for in speed.

He gave Anatoli a casual, assessing glance. _I reckon I could take you._

To Draco's amusement, Anatoli returned the stare with a subtle raised eyebrow. _Try it_.

_Yes_, thought Draco, but not now.

* * *

After breakfast, Draco was escorted from his quarters, ostensibly on a tour of the fleet's scientific facilities located elsewhere on the same vessel. It was a big ship. All in all, it took twenty minutes to walk to the opposite end, two floors down. They passed through the lavish foyer from the night before, where Draco half expected to see Honoria again. She did not make an appearance this time, but there were plenty of other people; some in starched white uniforms, some in plain clothing. They all seemed very busy. Of other fellow 'passengers', there was no sign.

Eventually, Draco was shown inside a laboratory that was three times the size of the one he'd been working in for the past two and a half months. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the sterile whiteness of the place. Amarov's setup didn't possess the mismatched, patch-and-make-do quality of the Project Christmas operation. But then Project Christmas wasn't staffed by a team of scientists who looked like they were about to wet themselves from fear.

There were over a dozen of them, standing like statues in their white lab coats. It looked like someone had hit the 'pause' button on a previously busy scene. A member of the group stepped forward. There was hesitation on his face, but he was less afraid than the others.

"_Dobreyah ootrah_," Draco said to the man, who was small, wiry and completely bald. "I'm Draco Malfoy."

The man held out a hand to shake. Draco took it, glancing down at their joined hands. He noted the fading bruises around the man's wrist and the characteristic chaffing calluses that came from frequent handcuffing. None of this was surprising, unfortunately.

"We were told you were coming," the scientist said. He inclined his head to a stainless steel bench where notes and data from Project Christmas had been neatly laid out and ostensibly inspected. "I am Professor Vadim Belikov. You can use English, Mr Malfoy. We all speak it in the labs."

"You are in charge of this operation?"

Belikov shrugged. "I am the most senior scientist and the first to be enlisted, shall we say?" He smiled wryly. "And occasionally I speak for the others."

Draco surveyed the pale, stricken faces in the room. He saw the nervous stares and he saw the ones who didn't stare at all; their gazes firmly affixed to the floor. He saw the way the three women in the room were nearly obscured from view, protectively herded to the back of the laboratory by their male colleagues. The group was painfully silent and still, almost as if audible breath could potentially single them out for attention. Anatoli watched on from his favourite haunt—the doorway—looking tellingly unhappy and uncomfortable. Draco felt the familiar tingle run through the tops of his hands, dancing across the metacarpals, culminating in a heated vibration in his fingertips. He delicately ran the pads of his thumbs over the whorls of his fingertips. He could feel his magic pool around him, fuelled by his darker emotions. But there was no conduit to unleash it. No wand. No shower wall to assault.

He'd experienced this before, of course. All Azkaban prisoners did. This was what it felt like to be stripped of your magic. After the initial adrenaline of capture wore off, it came first as an itch, then a constriction that made you want to claw your way out of your own skin. All that magic and no way to expend it. You couldn't die from it, but on bad nights, you _wished_ you could. Draco felt it now. After the past few weeks of carefully monitored wand usage (invariably Granger's) he felt its unanticipated absence acutely. He breathed in slowly and flexed the fingers of his left hand, aware of Belikov's speculating stare.

"You are a wizard as well as a scientist," the professor noted. "They didn't tell us that."

"You don't need to be afraid," Draco answered, perhaps with too much grit in his voice. He was still trying to quell the itch for a wand.

To Draco's surprise, Belikov shook his head. "No, young man. I am not afraid of you. I am afraid _for_ you."

"Why?"

In response, Belikov glanced down at his wristwatch and then at Anatoli, switching back to Russian for the guard's benefit. "If you take our guest there now, he can see for himself."

Anatoli gave the scientist a sceptical look. "And you think showing him the Pit is going to convince him to work with us?"

Belikov snorted. "He will work for the same reason you work. For the same reason we are all here." Belikov turned his attention back to Draco. "Do you have family with you? Family that Amarov has threatened to feed to the wolves if you decline to help with the cure? "

Draco responded with another question. "Is that why you're here? In exchange for your family's safety?"

"I have two grand-daughters, Mr Malfoy. They are all that is left of my family." Belikov smiled sadly. "What would you do to keep safe that which is most precious to you?"

There was a pregnant pause.

"Fine, I'll take him," Anatoli announced, sounding none too happy about it.

Belikov nodded. "Be aware that Honoria will probably be angry that you're showing our guest the fleet's less civilised diversions so soon after he's arrived."

The guard shrugged. "If Amarov returns, he'll make the wizard see it sooner or later, no?"

"You mean _when_ Amarov returns," Belikov corrected. "The man has nine lives."

Anatoli sneered. "If he does come back, it won't be from the lack of my praying that he _doesn't_."

Draco looked from the professor to the guard. "I get the distinct feeling none of you are overly fond of your resident sociopathic billionaire."

Belikov appeared to be choosing his words wisely. "Amarov has many friends here from his former life; friends he has acquired from his travels and his business dealings. They are drawn to him because like knows like, and _like him_, they are spoilt, cruel and sadistic. Even with the endemic corruption they thrived in before the plague took hold, there were still some rules that even the wealthy had to follow."

"But now there are no rules," Draco said.

"On the contrary, Mr Malfoy. There are _many_ rules that Alexander Amarov expects us to abide by. He is our Leviathan. To his companions, he is their prince and they are his courtiers. He rules with impunity here."

There really was nothing else for it. And considering that it was apparently something Honoria _didn't _want him to see…

Draco walked up to Anatoli. "Alright, take me to the Pit."

* * *

This required a brisk boat ride and a blindfold.

Draco saw nothing of the ocean except the slivers of sunlight that slipped through under his blindfold, but he could feel the dip and the lurch of the smaller vessel on the water and he could smell the salt in the wind. There were birds, which meant they were not far from land. Anatoli spoke briefly with the skipper of what was presumably an intra-fleet transport vessel. There were other passengers aboard, though no one spoke much and when they did, the banter was stiff. No doubt the presence of a blindfolded man was a bit of a conversation stifler. The skipper attempted to fill in the silence. He talked about the weather, the state of the fleet's supplies, the perpetual fresh milk shortage and how one of the other vessels had recently seen an outbreak of head lice.

It was a short ride to their destination vessel. The other passengers disembarked first and then Draco felt Anatoli grab him by the back of his shirt and push him forward. Once they had boarded, the blindfold was taken away.

Draco immediately noted the intense humidity, the staleness of the air and the metal grating under his feet—no muffling, plush carpet here. There was the metallic creak and groan of what was presumably a cargo vessel or a tanker. It was dark in the ship's corridor with only sickly amber pilot lights dotted above the narrow walkways. Other men milled past, their shadowed faces grim.

"What is this?"

"The games," Anatoli said.

Draco raised both eyebrows, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Twice a week we are asked to send representatives from each of the vessels in the fleet. We have to make wagers. Every vessel picks a champion from the pool and the champion goes into the Pit. Amarov says it breeds community spirit and that the common people need their sport."

Even without Anatoli's hesitant explanation, the growing stench was explanation enough.

Zombies—nearby and _lots_ of them.

And then they entered what had to be the central hub of the ship. There were four levels arranged around a square arena. Levels two to four consisted mostly of men, none of whom looked thrilled to be there. Many were dressed in work gear; grease-stained overalls, steel-capped work boots, rolled-up sleeves and the occasional hard hat. Draco surmised that some sort of fleet-wide bell had been sounded and the men had come to attend the games. Some leaned over the metal railings, waiting. The rest were stony-faced, looking down at red tickets in their hands, smoking and checking their watches.

The lowest level was roughly five meters from the arena floor and the twenty or so spectators on that level were the most colourful and boisterous. They had to be Amarov's inner circle, judging from their attire, conduct and the fact this was the only level to have lingerie-clad servers bearing food and drink on trays. The women looked riddled with anxiety, nervous smiles stretched across heavily made-up faces.

Anatoli and Draco entered at the fourth level, amidst openly hostile stares. They took a staircase down to the first level and were greeted by an enormous man, perspiring profusely in a suit and a white, silk cravat.

"The Fatman," Anatoli whispered. "Although call him that to his face and you're be a braver man than I. He is Louis Renauld, the fleet's Games Master."

"Who do we have here?" exclaimed Renauld. "Honoria mentioned to me that she'd brought one of the British scientists back with her from her mission in London. Does she know you've taken him to the games today?" The man's English was very heavily French-accented and Draco could tell Anatoli was struggling to understand him.

"Not yet," Draco spoke for Anatoli, "but I have a feeling word travels fast in the fleet."

Renauld smiled. "That it does, especially if I have anything to say about it." He beckoned to one of the serving girls. "Go and fetch Honoria. Tell her that our new guest is with us at the Pit." Renauld proceeded to untie his cravat and used it mop the sweat from his face. When that wasn't enough to cool him down, he extracted a hand fan from inside his jacket, opened it with a sharp snap and proceeded to vigorously fan himself. "My, my. They don't make all wizards like you, do they?" Renauld said to Draco, his cataloguing gaze was one of frank appreciation.

"I imagine they don't make all Muggles like you, either," Draco replied. "Or they'd have to double the bus fares."

Anatoli swore sharply, but Renauld merely snorted. "You're highborn aren't you? I can smell the entitlement. Alexander once told me that some of your kind can trace back their magical lineage across ten generations. What is the word you use? There is a word for it, but I cannot now remember…." Renauld's fanning became more vigorous as he pondered.

Draco assisted, if for no other reason than to eliminate the compulsion to take the annoying fan away from the Frenchman and assault him with it. "Pureblood."

"Yes! _Pureblood_. At any given time, we keep about a thousand of your people on this ship and we've managed to learn quite a bit about your kind. You are a secretive bunch, but it is astounding how forthcoming you can be when we ask the right questions, _oui_? Some of your brethren told me about a rather nasty chap by the name of Voldemort. He was apparently obsessed with blood purity. Did you know him?"

"Rings a bell," Draco said, shrugging.

All trace of pleasantness vanished from Renauld's perspiring face. "Of course it rings a fucking bell. He was a genocidal war criminal, but he wasn't a Pureblood, was he?"

The question was rhetorical, so Draco did not bother responding.

"And yet he was still one of your most powerful and feared wizards," Renauld continued. "Explain this to me."

"The alleged superiority of pure magical blood is an _idea_, Mr Renauld. Some find it a very motivating idea, but it has no basis in reality, in science."

Renauld's eyes were fever bright. This was clearly a topic that fascinated him. "And you believe your magic can be explained by science?"

Floodlights switched on. Draco's gaze flickered to the arena floor. There was no mistaking the debris and stains on the ground, or the putrefying remains that were splattered across the walls.

"So many questions flowing in one direction. Am I not permitted a few of my own?" Draco asked.

"No my dear boy, you are not. On my ship, I decide whether you live or die. But given that you so brighten up these dreary confines, I implore you to behave yourself. Don't make me ask one of my men to carve the Russian word for 'humility' into your pretty face."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "It's a long word. I'd be surprised if your thugs can spell it."

"The game start now," Anatoli blurted, likely in an attempt to diffuse Renauld's rising anger.

Renauld was still staring beadily at Draco as he beckoned a serving girl forward and took a drink from her tray. "You speak of ideas that galvanize, well this fleet is one such idea. It is Alexander's idea and a powerful one at that. The games are a small part of it. You're in for quite a show today, my magical friend." He raised his drink. "Enjoy."

A loud buzzer sounded. Anatoli pushed Draco closer to the railing. From that vantage point, they could see two hatches on opposite sides of the arena. One hatch swung open following a long, electric buzz that vibrated through the metal railings.

A man stepped into the arena, dressed in the ragged remains of black wizarding robes. His forearm shielded his eyes from the bright floodlights above. Presently, the arm came down and Draco gripped the railing before him with white knuckled fingers.

_Blaise Zabini_. And he was carrying what appeared to be a small child—a little boy.

"_Chyort voz'mi_!" Anatoli exclaimed. "They bring children this time!"

Three levels of spectators erupted into protest. Men shouted and cursed, waving their arms and hurling red tickets down into the arena. Blaise stood in the middle of this maelstrom, either resolute or terrified, or perhaps both. Red tickets rained down around him.

Draco turned to see how the inner circle was reacting. They looked apprehensive at the crowd's obvious disapproval, but their mood lifted when Renauld was handed a palm-held microphone on a long cord. He sauntered to the railing and glared at the upper three levels. The intercom system crackled once, before a blast of feedback caused the spectators to quieten slightly.

"May I remind you that you are all here because of the generosity of Alexander Amarov?" Renauld spoke in flawless Russian, and his drawling, low voice seemed to crawl through the ship. "Yes or no?"

Silence.

"Yes," he answered for them, and there was a smile in voice. "You have been delivered to safety from the plague and the ungodly monsters that walk the streets of our cities. You and your families are fed and clothed. When you are sick, our doctors attend to you. Your women and children are safe here. Yes or no?" he asked, and this time, there was no mistaking the anger in that question.

Silence.

"Yes!" he said again, "and all because of Alexander Amarov! If any of you wish to decline my very good friend's generosity, let that man step forward. Come now, I want to see you. Let us all see you."

Draco looked from the Frenchman to the crowd, noting that not a single person among them moved.

"Your berth here in this fleet is not free, comrades. You pay for your passage, as do I. That price is that we work to keep this city afloat and that we follow the rules, for a city without rules will soon descend into anarchy. Yes or no?"

This time there was an answer from the crowd. It wasn't loud, but there was a general muttering of agreement.

"Good," Renauld said. He set his corpulent body upon a chair and tossed the microphone back to a serving girl in exchange for his drink. "Resume the games," he ordered, taking a long, noisy slurp. He stared at Draco as he spoke, a smirk on his face. "The common folk need their games."

Another long buzz sounded and the second hatch opened. Draco watched as Blaise adopted a fighting stance, one arm wrapped protectively around the child. He looked up at the crowd and held up his other arm. The expression on his face was easy enough to read.

_Please_.

"He cannot bring weapons into the arena with him," Anatoli whispered to Draco. "It is up to the crowd to give him what he needs."

"Then give him your gun," Draco hissed.

Anatoli shook his head. "No guns. Amarov's rules."

Three steel rods were tossed to the ground with a loud clang. Someone had been industrious enough to sharpen them into precise points. Additionally, there was a length of chain, a rusted saw, two crow bars and a baseball bat.

"This is murder. You cannot do this."

The guard snorted. "What do you want me to do, wizard? Do you want me to die for him? Or do you want my wife to die in his place? Or perhaps another man's family?"

"Calm yourselves, gentleman," said Renauld, who was observing Draco's agitation with relish. "This particular champion has been in the Pit before and he's survived."

"Apparently not with a child to protect," Draco said.

Renauld shrugged. "Despite our instructions, he finished the monsters off too quickly last time. It made for a rather dull show, I'm afraid. Maybe his son will add a bit of interest to the spectacle, no?"

Draco took a step towards Renauld. "Stop this now or I will refuse to work for Amarov."

"Threaten me again, wizard, and I'll make sure Honoria disposes of your friends in London, one by one. I believe that was the deal she made with you—your cooperation or the certain death of your friends? And after we're done with them, I'll cut your legs off and use it for feed. We don't need your legs, just your head."

Draco felt Anatoli's hand on his arm. "This is _not_ the way," Anatoli said into his ear.

The noise of the crowd picked up and Draco reluctantly returned to the railing to look. Three zombies had shuffled out into the Pit. They were slow and extremely decomposed, with one soon collapsing under what appeared to be a broken leg, splintered bone protruding just above its thigh. The other two, both females, continued towards Blaise, arms outstretched, mouths agape. Blaise's son clung to this father like a baby koala, face buried tightly against Blaise's neck. Of the offered weapons, Draco noted that Blaise has chosen one of the steel pikes—a weapon that afforded the maximum damage at maximum reach.

Blaise didn't hesitate. In a double handed grip, he raised the pike high above his head and brought it down right on top of the nearest zombie's skull. It pierced the creature's cranium and exited just below its chin. There wasn't even a gurgle. With its brain badly damaged, it fell over. The second zombie had nearly reached him by now. Blaise picked up the baseball bat beside his feet and swung it in a wide arc. It smashed into the side of the zombie's head with a dull, wet thud. The thing howled, scrabbling at the spot where its eye used to be. The eyeball had popped out, still dangling from the mangled eye socket by the optic nerve. It keeled over to the ground, rolling around in disorientation. Blaise stepped away from it, swaying slightly on his feet.

"_Finish it_," Draco said under his breath.

"They don't feed the prisoners well," Anatoli commented. "Look at him. He's weak."

But then Blaise appeared to refocus. He stood over the creature and brought the baseball bat down on its head over and over until it was a dark, gelatinous mess. And then he sat down heavily on the ground, looking dazed. He peeled his son from him to inspect the boy, wiping away blood splatter from the boy's arms using the hem of his robes.

A third buzz and the second hatch opened again. Four more zombies entered the arena; fresher this time. They moved with greater purpose. Blaise scrambled back on his feet.

Draco turned to glare at Anatoli, who had been expecting the unspoken question. "Three rounds," the guard clarified. "That's the rules."

"He's not likely to survive the _second_ bloody round!"

"That's the point, wizard. This champion's been in the Pit three times before. He's been winning for too long."

"And what happens if he survives this and the next round?"

The guard stared at him. "He won't"

"Answer the question!"

Anatoli sighed. "If he survives the third round then he would be victorious yet again and retired until such time he's chosen to fight in the future."

Draco looked down into the arena again to check on Blaise's progress. Zabini had now driven the second steel pike into one of the new zombies, but it was lodged in the creature's neck, which merely slowed it down. The crowd shouted advice and suggestions in about a dozen different languages. Blaise was clearly tiring. Draco could see it in the sloppy swing of his bat, in the trembling of his arm and the way his feet were starting to drag. He was running on empty.

To make matters worse, Blaise's son was beginning to lose his hold around his father neck, no doubt because of the blood and sweat that liberally covered his father.

Two of the zombies advanced, one managing to grab a portion of Blaise's long robes. Blaise's son screamed and began kicking out at the snarling creature.

Draco leaned over the railing, examining the drop. He turned back to Anatoli and had to grab the guard by the front of his shirt to pry Anatoli's horror-filled attention away from what was happening in the arena.

"These rules," Draco said, shouting over the cacophony of the crowd. "A champion can only use what is given to them by the crowd, correct?"

Anatoli nodded.

"But no guns?"

"No guns. Nothing automatic, no fire power, just…._no, you cannot be serious_!"

"Would it be against the rules?"

"Of course!" said Anatoli, but then contradicted himself. "But man is _not_ gun." He was stunned enough to momentarily switch to English. He blinked at Draco. "So maybe is not against rules?"

"Man is not gun," Draco repeated, nodding. "Has anyone tried it before?"

"_Nyet_! No one is so crazy!"

"The purpose of the game is to entertain, isn't it? These friends of Amarov want a good show, and they think that's what the fleet needs, yes? _Amarov's rules_."

Anatoli merely blinked. "Wizard, you are going to _die_."

Draco shook his head. "No, I'm going to give them a show."

And then Anatoli watched on with sheer incredulity as Draco climbed over the railing and dropped soundlessly on his haunches, inside the Pit.

* * *

**Additional Author's Notes:**

For anyone interested in my fanfic writing background, discussion regarding writing processes and whatnot, I am the current 'featured author' at the Hawthorn and Vine blog over at Livejournal. You can post any questions or discussion topics you may have there. I can't seem to post the link here, so just google 'hawthorn and vine livejournal'.

Oh and I forgot to add...

Some kind soul/s have nominated me for a the HP Fanfic Fan Poll Awards, for **The Dragon's Bride** (best D/hr Legacy Story). Feel free to vote for me (or not!) :)


	19. Survival

**Author's Notes: **Just got handed some new deadlines, so I wanted to get this chapter out before the madness begins. Here you go. Now excuse me while I go and have a little lie down. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your reviews and feedback. I love hearing what you all think.

**Warnings:** Blood, gore, splatter, rampant violence to eyeballs, child-endangerment and some nice clothing gets ruined.

* * *

The length of chain was the nearest weapon. Draco bent down to scoop it up without stopping in his advance towards Blaise. As he walked, he slammed the chain around the neck of the first zombie that came staggering towards him. It was fresh, and quicker than the rotting corpses from Round One. The force of the wrapping blow sent the zombie careening backwards into a wall. The back of its skull smashed and it slumped to the ground, leaving a dark red streak against the wall. The crowd erupted into deafening cheers and whistles.

_One down, three to go. _

Blaise had successfully extricated his steel pike from the throat of one zombie and had skewered another through its eye-socket. The thing had been female, at one point. It was still wearing a stained, pink terry-towelling bath robe and had three curlers clinging to the matted remains of its hair. Helpfully, it managed to collide into the zombie that had been pulling on Blaise's robes. Almost in slow motion, both zombies went over, one on top of the other with the exposed end of the steel pike getting caught in the metal grating on the floor. The creatures were effectively pinned in place. They moaned and rocked from side to side, but were as coordinated as overturned turtles.

Draco swiftly picked up the baseball bat and made short, quick work of the creatures' heads. About a dozen blows in total did the trick. He was panting from the exertion by the time it was over.

"_Hello_," Blaise said to him, eyes wide with confusion, relief, wonder. The bleakness left his gaze. Now, there was calculation.

_Slytherins_, thought Draco, with approval.

Blaise was now looking over Draco's shoulder, inclining his head to the remaining member of Round Two. This specimen had been a soldier, judging from the military fatigues. The main problem presented itself in the form of a helmet, which the creature still had strapped on to its head.

Oh, well. So much for handy blunt force trauma.

"Here it comes," Blaise warned. They only had the baseball bat between them. Draco spotted one of the crow bars on the ground. He snatched it up and then threw it to Blaise.

The zombie charged in a straight line, predictably going for the larger and more obvious target of Blaise and his son. Draco swung the bat directly into the creature's knees with such force that the zombie's legs folded inwards at a right angle. It hit the ground, its helmeted head bouncing against the metal grating. Blaise quickly jammed the crowbar into the creature's face, but because he was still holding his son, it was only a one-handed thrust and so the crowbar did not penetrate all the way through the brain. With the crowbar sticking out of its head, the creature thrashed and snarled. Blaise attempted to hold it down by standing on its chest.

Draco went across to the opposite end of the arena to unwind the chain from around the neck of the first zombie. He then looped it around the neck of the former soldier that Blaise was standing on. Draco pulled hard on the chain. The zombie's neck broke with a loud crack and the crowd roared with approval.

Heedless of the stinking muck and gore that littered the ground, Blaise sank to the floor, cross-legged and visibly shaking. His son no longer hid his face in the crook of his father's neck. The little boy was wholly occupied staring up at Draco.

"Get on your feet," Draco ordered.

The exhausted man did not appear to hear him. Blaise's son attempted to shake his father back to attention. "Daddy, get up!"

Blaise's head lifted. He blinked, as if only just noticing Draco. "Malfoy, why are you here?"

"Because of a serious lapse in judgement, apparently." Draco gave him his hand. It was testament to how fatigued Blaise was that even with Draco's assistance, the other man still had trouble getting to his feet while bearing the weight of the boy.

"You need to put him down."

Blaise shook his head. "I am not abandoning my son."

Draco closed the distance between them, hauling Blaise to him until they were nearly nose to nose. The little boy watched the exchange with wide-eyes.

"I only have time to say this once, so listen well," Draco hissed. "Do anything else other than what I tell you to do, and I swear to you I will walk out of here without hesitation. Amarov and his people need something only I have and they are not about to let me die in here with you. If you want to leave this arena with your insides _still on the inside,_ I suggest you pay fucking attention."

"_Language_," Blaise said, with a glare.

Draco stared at his old friend. He understood that Blaise was probably functioning on his last reserves, both physically and mentally, and so he tried a different tack. "Our lives will depend on us working together," Draco said, more gently. "You cannot help me to keep you alive if you're carrying your son. We will put the boy in a corner and we will defend that corner. You take the left, I'll take the right. One of us falls, that's it. No backup, no second chances."

"I thought you said they wouldn't let you die?"

"Do you see them storming the arena right this moment to come and get me?" Draco asked, with increasing annoyance.

"No."

"They may do at any moment, so why don't you make the best use of me while I'm here?"

Blaise hands were shaking as they pulled his son closer to him. "Malfoy, if anything happens to him…"

"If anything happens to him, you can still live, even if you may not want to. If you die, on the other hand, he's dead by default. Run the numbers Zabini. That was always your talent."

Slowly, but surely, Blaise release his death grip over his son. He set the boy on the ground and pushed him back into a corner.

The buzzer sounded again. It seemed to be louder and longer this time, but that was probably because the spectators had gone silent. It was quiet enough for Draco to hear both his and Blaise's laboured breathing. They stood, makeshift weapons held tightly in their hands, feet braced apart.

"These will be different from the ones before," Blaise said.

"How so?"

Blaise gave him a look of dread. "They were like us."

_Wizarding zombies_. The ones that had probably attacked Taransay and were likely also responsible for cutting into Filch's body at Hogwarts. Capable of planning, coordinating, _thinking_. It made sense that Renauld would save the best—and worst—for last.

From somewhere on the fourth floor, a litany could be heard, "May the three enfold you, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Hold you safe and strong. May the three watch over you, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Still your heart and calm all fear..."

Someone else yelled out. "You're wasting your time! These are godless people!"

"Over here!" shouted a voice from the second floor. Draco and Blaise glanced up, squinting against the floodlights. They saw a female spectator leaning over the railing. She threw down a long bundle at Draco's feet. "We've just had this sent from _The Cassiopeia_! More useful right now than prayer!"

Draco dropped the baseball bat and unwrapped the bundle. There were more than a few cheers and whistles when he pulled out a wicked-looking scythe, followed by a sheathed katana. He looked up at the woman and nodded his thanks.

"Which one?" he asked Blaise, holding both weapons aloft.

Blaise pointed to the katana. "The sword. I have no idea what that other thing is."

"Give the boy your crowbar," Draco instructed, after handing Blaise the katana.

"He's only four-years old!"

"Then he'll be a four-year old armed with a bloody crowbar in the event that one of these creatures makes it past us!"

The noise from the crowd suddenly increased. There was movement from deep within the darkness beyond the hatch. Blaise crouched down beside his son, hurriedly handed the boy the crowbar and explained what to do with it. The boy, to his credit, took the weapon with both hands and nodded, his small face grimacing in concentration at his father's instructions.

"Zabini…" Draco said. He could see a silhouette emerging from the darkness. No, make that _two_.

"We're ready," Blaise responded, taking his place at Draco's right. He unsheathed the katana and tossed the scabbard.

"Either of you speak Russian?" bellowed a gruff male voice—in Russian—from either the third or the fourth level.

"Yes!" Draco called out, not taking his eyes off the hatch.

"Don't go for the head first with these ones," advised the anonymous spectator. "Don't even think about going for the chest or gut. It won't slow them down."

More voices chimed in. "Get them off their feet just like you did with that last one! Go for the knees and then the head!"

"Four is too many…"

"Shut up! Renauld will have our rations taken away!"

"No!" said the woman who had given them the new weapons. "They can do it! And let the Fatman take my fucking rations!"

"What are they saying?" Blaise demanded.

"Hobble the bastards and then cut their heads off, pretty much," Draco said, raising the scythe high above his head. He sent his old friend a reckless smile. "We survived seven years of Snape. This will be a moonlit stroll in comparison."

But then, rather anticlimactically, the familiar droning buzzer sounded and the door to the hatch promptly came down with a loud bang. In addition to the flood lights that illuminated the games, every single light beyond the arena was switched back on.

The reason for this new development was not a surprise to Draco. He looked up the first floor viewing gallery and saw that Honoria had arrived. She looked utterly livid. It was gratifying to see a nervous Renauld beside her, in what appeared to be rapid explanation mode. She hardly glanced at him as she spoke. Renauld nodded. He raised a microphone and addressed the crowd, sounding markedly less pleased with himself than before.

"Game's over for today!" he shouted. "Go home, all of you! And get those wizards out of there!"

* * *

Anatoli and three additional guards entered the arena, stepping over the elaborate, wet mess of dismembered zombies. One of the guards waved a handgun lazily at Blaise and his son. Blaise didn't need to be able to speak the language to understand what was about to transpire. He tensed.

"Send the dark one and the boy back to the hold. Honoria wants to speak to the blond wizard."

"My friend and his son stay with me," Draco said to the guard, and the quality of that edict made the guards acutely aware that Draco was still holding the scythe.

Anatoli stepped in, raising both palms up in a diplomatic gesture. "Put it down, weezard. Your friend can come."

"That freak and its vermin offspring are supposed to go back to the hold with the rest of the magical scum!" spat the guard with the handgun.

Draco's temper ignited. Both he and the guard took a step toward each other, but an altercation was forestalled by the guard abruptly howling in pain and grabbing his shin. All six adults looked down to find Blaise's son (still) holding on to the crowbar his father had given him. He had apparently just swung it at the guard's leg and looked in danger of following through with another blow. The expression on the boy's face could best be described as indignant.

"My daddy and the man _won the game_," said the lad, with an icy haughtier that was Zabini through and through.

Blaise cleared his throat and wisely plucked the crowbar from his son's grasp.

"What is your name, little boy?" Anatoli asked.

"Henry Miles Greengrass Zabini."

"That is many names."

Henry shrugged.

"Ok, Henry. You and your papa come with us, yes?"

The guard with the handgun opened his mouth to predictably protest, but was interrupted by Anatoli, who thankfully switched back to Russian before unleashing a string of blistering profanities and threats to neuter the man if he so much as uttered another word to delay them.

* * *

_Grimmauld Place, London._

"Neville said you were looking for me?"

Alec Mercer looked up from his computer screen to find Hermione standing at the doorway to the laboratory.

He slipped off his spectacles. "I was. Do come in. I hope I haven't taken you away from anything important?"

"Not really. I was helping the Cowboy wrap up his report on Honoria Cloot."

Mercer made a 'pfft' noise. "If that's even her real name..."

"It is," Hermione assured. She pulled a chair next to Mercer and sat down. "Her history and her expertise were real enough. It's her allies we have no idea about. She can't have been working on her own."

"And we're sure she was the one who put the grenade inside the specimen we brought to the hospital?"

"Actually, considering that she had no direct access to the weapons vault, the Cowboy suspects she used _Imperio _on someone else who did. She was unnaturally good at that spell," Hermione added, remembering her utter inability to throw off the Unforgiveable, not even for a moment.

Mercer was giving her a blank look.

"It's one of three Unforgiveable spells. There's _Avada Kedavra_, the killing curse. _Crucio_, which inflicts pain. And _Imperio_."

"What does that last one do?"

"It controls you," Hermione said. "You become a puppet, effectively. In many ways, it's the most heinous of the Three."

"Charming." Mercer gave her an uncharacteristically cold look. "You know, I was in that vault when the Cowboy picked out a gun for me. I might have been the one to steal the grenade."

Hermione considered this. "It's possible, but not likely. Kent was there at the same time. She didn't report anything untoward about your behaviour. Richards thinks it might have been her who was under _Imperio_. Kent had knowledge of the vault's weaponry, the access and the opportunity. Plus, she wasn't exactly popular. If someone wanted to arouse suspicions about her, it would have been a good way to go about doing that."

"Malfoy was there, too, remember?"

Hermione's expression darkened. "Yes, he was. But then he had practically zero access to the specimen." She stared at Mercer for a moment. "You blame yourself for what happened at Welwyn, don't you? For Jason and Mira's deaths?"

The neuroscientist began leafing through numerous printouts on his desk, searching for something. "Bloody oath, I do. The trip was my idea. We could have run a metal scan over the specimen before we left Grimmauld Place. The grenade could have been discovered."

"If I recall, you asked Jason to run the scan precisely before the specimen was to be brought into the MRI room. Did he do it?"

"No."

Hermione sighed. "We can't control for every eventuality, Alec. Let it go. If you want to blame someone, blame Honoria."

"The power you people have," Mercer said, quietly, "to seemingly bend the laws of nature, to kill with just a phrase, to control people. It's frightening. I don't blame your government for trying to keep it all a secret."

"And I don't blame Muggles for being worried about it now that they know," Hermione said. "I felt the same way when I found out."

"But _you're_ one of them. What do you have to worry about?"

"I'm Muggle _and_ Magical. I straddle both worlds and bear their respective concerns, as does Harry and Richards. And remember that we have a few Purebloods working here with us, too. Dr Patil, for instance," she added, knowing Mercer's affection for Padma. "We're all on the same page—we're here to help. There's been a lot to take in. Seven months ago the idea of a zombie outbreak seemed ludicrous. Five months ago, you found out Magic—and its People—exist. And two days ago, well… Two days ago Ron was still alive."

Mercer put his spectacles back on. "That's actually the first thing I wanted to talk to you about. McAlister and I only had a chance to look at Ron's most recent blood analysis after the funeral." Mercer had by now located the printout he'd been searching for. He handed it to Hermione.

She recognised Dr Kate McAlister's handwriting in the dramatic red circles and annotations on the page's margin. There were also a few exclamation marks. After many weeks of helping Padma look over Ron's blood work, it didn't take a great deal of expertise to notice that the serological figures were startlingly different.

"When was this sample taken?" she asked Mercer.

"Dr Patil drew the last sample just before Emily went in to check on Ron."

Hermione frowned. "Help me out, Alec. What am I looking at here?"

"You're looking at _regeneration_. All of his vital systems were coming back online. Liver, kidneys, pancreatic functions were all still well below normal, but they were improving."

"What are you saying? Are you telling me Ron was getting better?"

Mercer saw Hermione's growing distress as she contemplated the notion that Ron had been killed when he had been on the cusp of recovery. He was quick to allay her fears. "No. Granted, ReGen had staved off the Infection for weeks, but eventually it wore off. He was still Infected when he died. We didn't get a chance to do an autopsy, because there was no indication that one was warranted. But I'm guessing that if we had a look at his brain, we would have seen extensive neurogenesis."

"So he was a different kind of zombie?" Hermione speculated. "A smart zombie?"

The neuroscientist nodded. "Eventually, yep. Although maybe 'smart' is overkill, if you'll pardon the pun. More like a precisely programmed zombie. Like toxo-infected mice, perhaps?"

Hermione blinked. "Alec, I know Australia has some rather exotic fauna, but you're going to have a fill me in a bit more."

"Toxoplasma gondii. It's a single-celled parasite that can only reproduce inside the digestive tract of cats. About a third of all people carry the parasite. Mice who contract it behave…differently. They become bolder, essentially engaging in more cat-attracting activities. It's quite fascinating, really."

She had no doubt it was. "The mice end up getting caught and eaten by cats, thus enabling the parasite to reach its spawning grounds, so to speak?"

"Exactly," said Mercer. "But in this case, the Infection doesn't make a magical zombie take more risks, it just uses the parts of their brains required to further the Infection's needs."

"And what does the Infection 'need'?"

"In a nutshell? To _spread_. To do that it needs to keep its hosts safe, nourished and viable until such time they can come into contact with new, healthy people to Infect and to feed on."

"Malfoy and I saw evidence of tool usage on the remains of victim at Hogwarts. Are you saying that's part of the Infection's agenda?"

"It depends. What were the tools used for?"

"Our old Hogwarts' caretaker's brains and liver were removed." Hermione remembered the precision of the wounds. "Neatly," she added.

Mercer thought about it. "If magical zombies did that, then it could be that they were targeting the most nutritious parts of the body. The liver fits that description, certainly. The brain doesn't possess any distinctive nutritional value, so that might have just been for the, uh, taste."

"That's what Malfoy said."

"I'm inclined to concur. You know, we could really use Malfoy's help right about now. If he hadn't run off with the enemy, of course."

She patted him on the arm. "We'll manage. Now, you said there's something else you wanted to talk to me about?"

Mercer nodded. "Our creepy friend in the red-hoodie is back. Let's go upstairs for a better look." He opened a drawer at his desk and took out a packet of crisps. "I was going to take a break anyway and Patil _hates_ it when I eat in here."

* * *

From the elevated vantage point of the attic window, they observed the zombie in the red-hoodie for a few minutes. It was raining again outside, not that this thwarted their visitor. In between handfuls of crisps, Mercer jotted down notes.

"I suppose we now know why he can see the house so easily—he's magical," Hermione speculated.

"He's so…still," Mercer said. "What do you suppose he wants?"

Hermione's put her hand on the window pane, leaning in for a close look. Her breath fogged up the glass. Each time the fog dissipated and the blurry, rain-shrouded image of the zombie re-appeared, she half expected it to have moved even closer to the house.

"I think he wants to come inside."

"Christ," muttered Mercer. "_Can_ he get in?"

"Not without an invitation."

"I thought that was only vampires?"

"Vampires can't get in either," Hermione said, slightly confused at the turn in conversation.

"There are _vampires_?" Mercer asked, looking horrified. Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but he held up a hand. "No, wait! Don't tell me. I don't want to know. I suppose if there are zombies and werewolves, there must be vampires. What about Bigfoot? Is Bigfoot real?"

Whatever Hermione had been about to respond with was interrupted by the attic door opening. It was Harry.

"Thought I might find you two up here," he said. "You're wanted downstairs. House meeting."

"What's happened?" Hermione asked.

"Richards' sources just called in on the Floo. They've managed to find out where Alexander Amarov is being held." Harry was wearing a purposeful expression. It was a good change to the detachment she'd seen in him since Ron's funeral. "Looks like we've going on a rescue mission."

* * *

They were ordered to clean up first before seeing Honoria.

Accordingly, Draco, Blaise and Henry were taken to a makeshift decontamination shower, stripped and hosed down with tepid water. Draco could only assume that Blaise and his son hadn't had a good wash in quite some time because Henry's delighted giggles could be heard over the next cubicle. The resilience of children, thought Draco, with no small measure of wonder.

After the wash came the inspection. The clothes Draco had previously worn were ruined, obviously. It was put into a hazmat bag and disposed of. Blaise and Draco were given rubber boots and rough, beige overalls to wear, while Henry had to make do with a guard's woollen jumper, which he had to wear, unhappily, like a dress. They were then inspected by a doctor with the bedside manner of a soggy biscuit. The humourless man peered at their collections of cuts, scrapes and bruises, applying stinging antiseptic where required. Henry was not so happy when they had to have their blood taken.

"Doesn't like needles," Blaise said. It was all Blaise had said to Draco since they'd exited the arena.

When it was done, they waited in the doctor's office. The doctor took their blood to be tested for Infection, while Anatoli and the three guards stood by the door in silence. An exhausted Henry was, by now, fast asleep in his father's arms. The door opened and Honoria walked in. She paused for a moment to consider the two wizards in their identical attire and bright red, rubber boots. Amusement briefly showed on her face.

"You two make quite the couple." To the three guards, she said, "Take Mr Zabini and his son to Mr Malfoy's rooms."

Blaise cast Draco a wary look, but complied when Draco gave him a subtle nod. Once Blaise and his son had left with the guards, Honoria addressed Anatoli. "I told you to watch him! Within less than two days of him being here, I find out he's gone one round in Renauld's pit." She made a noise to convey her frustration. "While wearing borrowed _Armani_, I'm told."

"The shoes were Bally, if that helps?" said Draco.

Anatoli looked contrite, but held his ground. "You didn't say I cannot take the weezard to the Pit. I cannot stop him. He do what he want."

Honoria's eyes narrowed. She was well dressed that afternoon in a sleek, black pantsuit, but she was still sporting the contagious exhaustion she'd brought back with her from Grimmauld Place. "Anatoli, leave us."

After Anatoli had shut the door behind him, Honoria walked around the doctor's desk and sat on the edge. She stared at Draco, thoughtful.

"Zabini seemed surprised that I knew his name. I had quite the crush on him when we were at Hogwarts."

"And now you keep him in a cage like an animal. If that's how you deal with your old, school crushes, I hate to see what happens to your actual partners."

She sobered. "There are few things about which I openly disagree with Amarov. The games are top on the list."

"So stop them."

"I can't. I've tried."

"_Try harder_."

They stared at each other in silent hostility.

"It was a mistake for Renauld to put a child into that arena. The people already detest the blood sport, but Alexander demands that we are all united in our hatred and mistrust of magical folk. Unfortunately, what the crowd witnessed today had _everything_ to do with being human. They saw a father trying to keep his child alive." She scowled at Draco. "And they saw _you_ risk _your_ life to help a friend. Alexander will be displeased when he finds out about this. He wants magical people to be seen as less than human."

"Well that tactic sounds somewhat familiar, doesn't it?" Draco said, rhetorically. "Switch the games for Dachau and I really fail to see the difference."

"These are difficult times!"

"Yes, they are." Draco snapped. "And yet you respond by sabotaging the quest for a cure. By imprisoning our people and torturing them."

"_Our_ people?" Honoria hissed. "It's 'our people' now, is it? I seem to recall a time when you were trying to remind _my_ people of our inherent inferiority to Purebloods, of our unworthiness to possess any magical ability. You're a hypocrite, Malfoy. And you served a mad man."

"And I suppose Amarov is a model of mental stability?"

She whirled away from him, pacing the small confines of the office as she spoke. "Alexander has his failings, but he is still saving thousands of lives in the bargain!"

"There are other ways to save lives that do not involve such bargains. The only thing Alexander Amarov has that appeals to you is a deep loathing of magic and magical folk. I don't presume to know why you detest your own kind so much, but I know that whatever reason you give, it cannot justify all this."

"Don't speak to me like you're some kind of hero. You're not."

Draco surprised her by laughing heartily. "Oh, I am no hero. My father warned me, very early on, about what happens to heroes in the real world."

"You knew Renauld would ask me to come and that I could not afford to let you die in the Pit. You knew the message it would send to the crowd, didn't you—to see you help Zabini and save that child? It was all calculated and only I know that because _I bloody know you_. After all these years, you're still the same." She shook her head at him. "It's all smoke and mirrors with you, Malfoy. It's just showmanship. I wish Granger could have seen that about you."

"Hermione Granger was under no illusions as to what I am," Draco said, his voice going very soft now.

Honoria seemed aware that she was wading out into dangerous waters. She brought the conversation to a point. "I want you to start working on the cure with Professor Belikov tomorrow. You will do your best or Zabini and his son will suffer. I may not be able to put them back into the Pit without risking mutiny from the spectators, but I can return them to the hold. Or worse. Do we have an understanding, Malfoy?"

He did. As his father had warned, this was what came of revealing an attachment to anything or anyone. _Weakness_. It gave others a power over you, and this would be the second time Honoria used it against him.

His wand hand twitched. "We have an understanding," he said.

"Good, I'll have Anatoli escort you back to your quarters."

It was gratifying to see her take a hasty step backwards when Draco suddenly stood, his chair scraping against the floor. Her eyes darted to the door, to where Anatoli waited just beyond. It was difficult to be intimidating while wearing red Santa boots and what felt like a lumpy burlap bag with a zipper, but Draco had years of practice.

"Honoria."

She hesitated, and then, "Yes?"

"The next time you're alone in a room with me, I'm going to kill you."


End file.
